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" Wordsworth's Poetry etftnds tfistinct in the world. That Thieh tto 
other men is an occasional pleasiu-e, or possibly delight, and to other 
poets an occasional transport, Ulb seeing ihis visible Universe, is to 
him. a Life— one Individual Human Life— namely, his Own— Iravelling 
the whole joui'ney from the cradle to the grave. And that Life— for 
What else could he do with itv— he has verified- sung. And there is 
Eo other sueh song." Christopher North, in Blackwood, 



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CONTENTS. 



PAQS 

Publishers' Advertisbment -.----- yiil 
Essay on the Life and Writings of Wordsworth, by 

H. T. TUCKBRMAN ------- ix 

Sonnet — Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room - - 21 

To a Sky-Lark 22 

The Pet-Lamb. A Pastoral. ..-.---22 

Sonnet — With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh - 26 
Ode to Duty ......----26 

Goody Blake and Harry Gill. A True Story. - - - 28 

• Written after THE Death OF Charles Lamb - - - 33 

The Rainbow — My heart leaps up when 1 behold - - - 37 
Alice Fell ; or, Poverty --...--.37 

The White Doe of Eyl stone ; or, the Fate of the Nortons - 40 

Sonnet — Scorn not the Sonnet ; critic, you have frowned - - 102 

We are Seven .----..-- 102 

Lucy — She dwelt among the untrodden ways - - - - 105 

Michael. A Pastoral Poem. ------- 106 

To THE Daisy --.--..--- 12I 

Sonnet — Those words were uttered as in pensive mood - 124 

She was a Phantom of Delight ------ 124 

Ode — Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of eaily 

childhood 125 

On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from Abbotsford, for 

Naples 132 

Hart-Leap Well --------- 133 

Sonnet — Nov. 1------..-- 139 

The Affliction of Margaret ■ • ----- 140 

Lines — Written while sailing in a Boat at Evening - - . 143 

Anecdote for Fathers -■- - - - - - - 143 

The Norman Boy ---------- 146 

The Armenian Lady's Love ----.- 148 



VI 



CONTENTS 



VAOt 

A WniiN's Nest -.----»««i- 155 

The KiTTisN and Falmns Leaves ..... 157 

Star-Gazers ---..-.... 162 

Sonnet — There is a pleasui'e in poetic paina .... 164 

Sonnet— When haughty expectations prostrate lie ... 164 

A Jewish J'amily --..-.... I65 

Sonnet — To -, in her seventieth year ..... I66 

Gold and Silver Fishes in a Vase ..... 157 

Sonnet— Oxford, May 30, 1820 169 

Character of the Happy Warrior ..... 170 
Prelude— Prefixed to the Volume entitled "Poems chiefly of 

early and late years "----.--- 172 
Inschiptkins — Supposed to be found in and near a Hermit's Cell; 

I. Hopes what are they ? Beads of morning ... 174 

II. Pause, Traveller ! whosoe'er thou be - - . - - 176 

Sonnet — To a Snow-Drop ..-..-. 177 
Epitaphs : 

I. Weep not, beloved Friends ! nor let the air ... 179 

II. There never breathed a man who, when his life - 178 

III. O flower of all that springs from gentle blood ... 179 

IV. By a blest husband guided, Mary came ... 180 
Three Years She Grew IN Sun AND Shower ... 181 
The Pieverie of Poor Susan ---.... lasj 

Sonnet — Composed during a Storm ...... 183 

Laodamia -----.-.... 184 

On the Power of Sound -.-..... 190 

Ode— Composed upon an Evening of extraordinary Splendor and 

Beauty 198 

Ruth iffll 

To THE Cuckoo ---....... gog 

Links — Composed near Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the Banks of 

the Wye 211 

Sonnet — Composed by the Sea-side, near Calais ... 2IO 
To A Lady — In answer to a Request that I would write her a 

Poem upon some Drawings that she had made of Flowers 

in the Island of Madeira .-..-.. 217 

Peter Bell. A Tale. 218 

Sonnet — One might believe that natural miseries ... 253 

To THE Sons of Burns — After visiting the Grave of their Father 258 

Lines — Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree ..... 260 
Rob Roy's Grave -■..-.-. ...263 



CONTENTS, VU 

SosNET — Alas I what boots the long labarious quest - - 2157 

A Poet's Epitaph ---------- 267 

Elegiac Stanzas -.----... ojjg 

Sonnet — Oli what a wreck 1 how changed in mien and speech - 273 

■THi2 Fahmkr of Tm-sbury Vaxs ...... 273 

iNCIDENT AT BkUGES ..-..- .. 277 

Sonnet— Thought of a Briton an tfee Subjugation of Sw!tzeil:md 279 

Yarrow Visited - ... - 27& 

Grace Darlino - - 282 

Sonnet — Great men have been among us; hands that penned. - 28r> 

The Brothers ----- 288 

Sonnet— To Sleep --.-.--.-. 3(j3 

The ImoT Boy 304 

Sonnet — Her only Pilot the soft breeze, the boat . - . sjg 

PaESENTIMJSNTS .-.. ....- 320 

Memory .------..-. 392 

The Russian Fugitive ........ 322 

Sonnet — from the Italian of Micbael Angelo .... 33(3 

G-LAD Sight wherever new with old . . _ - ggg 
Sonnets upon the Punishment of Deathi 

L Fit retribution, by the mora! code - . - o . 337 

il. Though to giye timely warning aad deter .... 337 

m. Oui- bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine . - 338 

IV. Ah, think how one compelled for life to abida - - 338 

V. See the Condemned alone wiUiin his cell ... - 338 

VI. Yes, though he well may tremble at the sound. - • 339 

VIL The foitnal world relaxes his cold chain .... 340 

Evening Voluntaries: 

L Composed by the Sea-shosa .-..-. 340 

a. The Crescent-moon the star of love • - . - - 34I 

IIL To the Moon. Composed by the Sea-side ... 343 

IV. Te the Moon. Rydal. 344 

Sonnbt- To E. R. Haydon ....... 346 

The Force or Prayer; or, the Foundiflg of BofltoB Priory - « 347 

To Joanna 349 

Sonnet — It is a beauteous evening, calai and free . - - 352 

To A Sexton ._.....-..- 353 

'Ode — Composed on May Eiorning ----... 354 

Lies .-.----.-.-. - 356 



ESSAY 



OH THB 



LIFE AND WRITINGS OF WORDSWORTH, 

BY H. T. TUCEERMAN.* 



In an intellectual history of our age, the bard of 
Rydal Mount must occupy a prominent place. His 
name is so intimately associated with the poetical criti- 
cisms of the period, that, even if his productions are 
hereafter neglected, he cannot wholly escape considera- 
tion. The mere facts of his life will preserve his 
memory. It will not be forgotten that one among the 
men of acknowledged genius in England, during a period 
of great political excitement, and when society accorded 
to literary success the highest honors, should voluntarily 
remain secluded amid the mountains, the uncompromis- 
ing advocate of a theory, from time to time sending forth 
his effusions, as uncolored by the poetic taste of the 
time, as statues from an isolated quairy. It has been 
the fortune of Wordsworth, like many original charac- 
ters, to be almost wholly regarded from the two ex- 
tremes of prejudice and admiration. The eclectic spirit, 
which is so approprtHte to the criticism of Art, has 
seldom, swayed his commentators. It has scarcely been 
admitted, that his works maj^ please to a certain extent, 
and in particular traits, and in other respects prove 



♦ Taken, by permiasion of the Author, from " Thoughts on the Poets." 



IX 



X INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

wholly uncongenial. Whoever recognises his beauties 
is held responsible for his system ; and those who have 
stated his defects, have been unfairly ranked with the 
insensible and unreasonable reviewers who so fiercely 
assailed him at the outset of his career. There is a 
medium ground, from which we can survey the sub- 
ject to more advantage. From this point of observation, 
it is easy to perceive that there is reason on both sides 
of the question. It was natural and just that the lovers 
of poetry, reared in the school of Shakspere, should be 
repelled at the outset by a new minstrel, whose prelude 
was an argument. It was like being detained at the 
door of a cathedral by a dull cicerone, who, before granting 
admittance, must needs deliver a long homily on the gran- 
deur of the interior, and explain away its deficiencies. 
" Let us enter," we impatiently exclaim; " if the build- 
ing is truly grand, its sublimity needs no expositor ; if 
it is otherwise, no reasoning will I'ender it impressive." 
The idea of adopting for poetical objects " the real lan- 
guage of men, when in a vivid state of sensation," was 
indeed, as Coleridge obsei-ves, never strictly attempted ; 
but there was something so deliberate, and even cold, in 
Wordsworth's first appeal, that we cannot wonder it 
was unattractive. Byron and Burns needed no intro- 
duction. The earnestness of their manner secured 
instant attention. Their principles and purposes were 
matters of after-thought. Whoever is even superficially 
acquainted with human nature, must have prophecied a 
doubtful reception to a bard, who begins by calmly 
stating his reasons for considering prose and verse iden- 
tical, his wish to inculcate certain truths which he 
deemed neglected, and the several considerations which 
induced him to adopt rhyme for the purpose. Nor ia 
this feeling wholly unworthy of respect, even admitting, 
with Wordsworth, that mere popularity is no evidence 
of the genuineness of poetry. Minds of poetical sensi- 
feility are accustomed to regard the true poet as so far 
iuspired by his experience, as to write from a spontane- 



INTEODTJCTORT ESSAY. XI 

ous enthusiasm. They regard verse as his natural ele- 
ment — the most congenial form of expression. They 
imagine he can scarcely account wholly to himself, far 
less to others, for his diction and imagery, — any farther 
than they are the result of emotion too intense and ab- 
sorbing to admit of any conscious or reflective process. 
Even if " poetry takes its origin from emotion recollected 
in tranquillity," it must be of that earnest and tender 
kind, which is only occasionally experienced. Trust, 
therefore, was not readily accorded a writer who 
scarcely seemed enamored of his art, and presented a 
theory in prose to win the judgment, instead of first 
taking captive the heart by the music of his lyre. Nor 
is this the only just cause of Wordsworth's early want 
of appreciation. He has not only written too much 
from pure reflection, but the quantity of his verse is 
wholly out of proportion to its quality. He has too 
often written for the mere sake of writing. The mine 
he opened may be inexhaustible, but to him it is not 
given to bring to hght all its treasures. His character- 
istics are not universal. His power is not unlimited. 
On the contrary, his points of peculiar excellence, 
though rare, are comparatively few. He has endea- 
vored to extend his range beyond its natural bounds. 
In a word, he has written too much and too indiscrimi- 
nately. It is to be feared that habit has made the work 
of versifying necessary, and he has too often resorted to 
it merely as an occupation. Poetry is too sacied to be 
thus mechanically pursued. The true bard seizes only 
genial periods, and inciting themes. He consecrates 
only his better moments to " the divinest of arts." He 
feels that there is a correspondence between certain 
subjects and his individual genius, and to these he con- 
scientiously devotes his powers. Wordsworth seems to 
have acted on a different principle. It is obvious to a 
discerning reader that his muse is frequently whipped 
into service. He is too often content to indite a series 
of common-place thoughts, and memorialize topics 



XU INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

which have apparently awakened in his mind only a 
formal interest. It sometimes seems as if he had taken 
up the business of a bard, and felt bound to fulfil its 
functions. His political opinions, his historical reading, 
almost every event of personal experience, must be 
chronicled in the form of a sonnet or blank verse. The 
language may be chaste, the sentiment unexceptionable, 
the moral excellent, and yet there may be no poetry, 
and perhaps the idea has often been better expressed in 
prose. Even the admirers of Wordsworth are com- 
pelled, therefore, to acknowledge, that with all his un- 
rivalled excellences, he has written too many 

" Such lays as neither ebb nor flow, 
Correctly cold, and regularly slow." 

Occasional felicities of style do not atone for such fre- 
quent desecration of the muse. "We could forgive them 
in a less-gifted minstrel ; but with one of Wordsworth's 
genius it is more difficult to compromise. The number 
of his indifferent attempts shades the splendor of his real 
merit. Tiie poems protected by his fame, which are 
uninspired by his genius, have done much to blind a 
large class of readers to his intrinsic woith. Another 
circumstance has conti-ibuted to the same result. His 
redeeming graces often, from excess, become blemishes. 
In avoiding the tinsel of a meretricious style, he some- 
times degenerates into positive homeliness. In reject- 
ing profuse ornament, he often presents his conceptions 
in so bald a manner as to prove uttei'ly unattractive. 
His simplicity is not unfrequently childish, his calmness 
stagnation, his pathos puerility. And these impressions, 
in some instances, have been allowed to outweigh those 
which his more genuine qualities inspire. For when 
we reverse the picture, Wordsworth presents claims to 
gi'ateful admiration, second to no poet of the age ; and 
no susceptible and obsei*ving mind can study his writ- 
ings without yielding him at least this cordial acknow- 
ledgment. 



INTRODITUTORY ESSAY, XIU 

It is not easy to estimate the happy influence Words- 
worth has exerted upon poetical taste and practice, by 
the example he has given of a more simple and artless 
style. Lilie the sculptors who lead their pupils to the 
anatomy of the human frame, and the painters who 
introduced the practice of drawing from the human 
figure, Wordsworth opposed to the artificial and decla- 
matory, the clear and natural in diction. He exhibited, 
as it were, a new source of the elements of expression. 
He endeavored, and with singular success, to revive a 
taste for less exciting poetry. He boldly tried the 
experiment of introducing plain viands, at a banquet 
garnished with all the art of gastronomy. He offered 
to substitute crystal water for ruddy wine, and invited 
those accustomed only to "a sound of revelry by night," 
to go forth and breathe the air of mountains, and gaze 
into the mirror of peaceful lakes. He aimed to per- 
suade men that they could be "moved by gentler ex- 
citements" than those of luxmy and violence. He 
essayed to calm their beating hearts, to cool theh" 
fevered blood, to lead them gently back to the fountains 
that "go softly." He bade them repose their throbbing 
brows upon the lap of Nature. He quietly advocated 
the peace of rural solitude, the pleasure of evening 
walks among the hills, as more salutary than more 
ostentatious amusements. The lesson was suited to 
the period. It came forth from the retirement of Na- 
ture as quietly as a zephyr ; but it was not lost in the 
hum of the world. Insensibly it mingled with the noisy 
strife, and subdued it to a sweeter murmur. It fell 
upon the heart of youth, and its passions grew calmer. 
It imparted a more harmonious tone to the meditations 
of the poet. It tempered the aspect of life to many an 
eager spirit, and gradually weaned the thoughtful from 
the encroachments of false taste and conventional habits. 
To a commercial people it portrayed the attractiveness 
of tranquillity. Before an unhealthy and flash}^ litera- 
ture, it set up a standard of truthfulness and simplicity. 
2 



XIV IKTRODUCTORY EBSAT. 

In an age of mechanical triumph, it celebrated the ma- 
jestic resources of the universe. 

To this calm voice from the mountains, none could 
listen without advantage. What though its tones were 
sometimes monotonous — they were hopeful and serene. 
To listen exclusively, might indeed prove wearisome ; 
but in some placid moments those mild echoes could not 
but bring good cheer. In the turmoil of cities, they 
refreshed from contrast; among the green fields, they 
inclined the mind to recognise blessings to which it is 
often insensible. There were ministers to the passions, 
and apostles of learning, sufficient for the exigencies of 
the times. Such an age could well suffer one preacher 
of the simple, the natural, and the true ; one advocate of 
a wisdom not born of books, of a pleasure not obtainable 
from society, of a satisfaction underived from outward 
activity. And such a prophet proved William Words- 
worth. 

Sensibility to Nature is characteristic of poets in 
general. Wordsworth's feelings in this regard have the 
character of affection. He does not break out into 
ardent apostrophes like that of Byron addressed to the 
Ocean, or Coleridge's Hymn at Chamouni ; but his 
verse breathes a constant and serene devotion to all the 
charms of natural scenery — from the mountain-range 
that bounds the horizon, to the daisy beside his path : 

" If stately passions in me burn, 
And one chance look to thee I turn 
I drink ont of an humbler urn, 
A lowlier pleasure ; 
The homelier sympathy that heeds 
The common life our nature breeds, 
A wisdom fitted to the needs 
Of hearts at leisure." 

He does not seem so much to resort to the quiet scenes 
of the countiy for occasional recreation, as to live and 
breathe only in their tranquil atmosphere. His interest 
in the universe has been justly called personal. It is not 
tlie passion of a lover in the dawn of his bliss, nor the 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. XV 

unexpected delight of a metropolitan, to whose sense 
rural beauty is aiTayed in the charms of novelty ; but 
rather the settled, familiar, and deep attachment of a 
friend : 

" Though absent long, 
These forms of beauty have uot.been to me 
As is a landscape to ai;)lind man's eye : 
But oft in lonely rooms, aiid 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them 
In hours of w. ariness. sensations sweet, 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; 
And passing even into my purer mind 
With tranquil restoration." 

The life, both inward and outward, of Wordsworth, is 
most intimately associated with lakes and mountains. 
Amid them he was born, and to them has he ever 
looked for the necessary aliment of his being. Nor are 
his feelings on the subject merely passive or negative. 
He has a reason for the faith that is in him. To the 
influences of Nature he brings a philosophic imagina- 
tion. No transient pleasure, no casual agency, does he 
ascribe to the outward world. In his view, its func- 
tions in relation to man are far more penetrating and 
efificient than has ever been acknowledged. Human 
education he deems a process for which the Creator has 
made adequate provision in this "goodly frame" of 
earth and sea and sky. 

" He had small neeii of bool?s ; for many a Tale 
Traditionary, round the mountains hung; 
And many a legend peopling the dark woods, 
Nourished Imagi.iation in her fr- .vth, 
And gave the mind that apprtneusive power, 
By which it is made quicli to recognise 
The moral scope and aptitude of things.'' 
***** 

" One impulse from a vernal wood 
May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good, 
Than all the sages can." 

Accordingly, both in details and combination, Nature 
has been the object of his long and earnest study. To 
illustrate her unobserved and silent ministry to the heart, 



—f 



SVl INTRO DITCTORT ESSAT, 

has been his favorile ptirsuit. From liis poems ini^hf, be 
gleaned a compendium of mountaiu influenees. Even 
the aniinR] world is viewed Ik the same light — m the 
much-ridiculed Peter Bell, SiTsan, and the White-Doe 
of Rylstone, Ave have striking instances, — to present 
the affecting points of its relation to mankind has been 
ons of the most daring experiments of his muse : 

" One Issson, shephftrd, let us two divide, 

Taught both by what she shows and •what eoueealgj 
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride, 
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feelfj." 

It is the common and universal in Nature that lie loves 
to celebrate. The rare and startling seldom find a place 
in his verse. Tliat calm, soothing, habitual language, 
addressed to the mind by the common air and sky, the 
ordinary verdure, the field-flower, and the sunset, is the 
ahnost invariable theme of his song. And herein have 
his labors proved chiefly valuable. They have tended 
to make us more reverent listeners to the daily voices 
of earth, to make us realize the goodness of our com- 
mon heritage, and partake, with a more conscious and 
grateful sensibility, of the beautiful around us. 

In the same spirit has Wordsworth looked upon hu- 
man life and history. To lay bare the native elements 
of character in its simplest form, to assert the essential 
dignity of life in its most rude and common manifesta- 
tions, to vindicate the interest which belongs to human 
beings, simply as such, have been the darling objects of 
his thoughts. Instead of Corsairs and Laras, peerless 
ladies and perfect knights, a wagoner, a beggar, a pot- 
ter, a pedlai-, are the characters of whose feelings and 
experience he sings. The operations of industiy, be- 
reavement, temptation, remorse, and local influences, 
upon these children of humble toil, have furnished pro- 
blems which he delighted to solve. And who shall say 
that in so doing, he has not been of signal service to 
his kind 7 Who shall say that through such portraits 'i 
wider and truer sympathy, a more vivid sense of human 







'f— 



INTR'O D UC TO R Y ESSAY. S\l 

'brctberhood, a more j^ist self-respect, has raot been ex- 
■teiisrvely awakened ? Have not our eyes }3een tlius 
opened to tke better aspects of ignorai5ce and poverty ? 
Have we not thus been made to feel the true claims of 
man? AMurerl by the gentle monitions from Rydal 
Mount, do we nc* now look upon our race in a more 
imeek and suscejitible moed, and pass the lowliest being 
'beside the higliAvay, witli more cA' that new sentiment 
of respect and hope which was heralded by the star of 
BetMehera ? Can we not more sincerely exclaim with 
the here of Barter Resartus, " Poor, wandering, wayward 
isan ! Art thou not tried, beateB with manj' stripes, 
even as I am ? Evi^r, whether thou weax the royal 
mantle or the beggar's gaberdine, art thou not so weary, 
so heavy laden ? O ! my brother, my brother ! why 
canEot i shelter thee in my bosom, and v<ripe away all 
tears from thine eyes?" 

In accordance with this humane philosophy, Child- 
liood is contemplated by Wordsworth. The spirit of 
■the Saviour's symimthy with this beautiful era of life, 
seems to possess his muse. Its unconsciousness, its 
Ignorance of deafh, its trust, hope, and peace, its teach- 
ings, and promise, be has portrayed with rare sympathy. 
Witness, " We are Seven," the " Pet Lamb,'" and 
especially the Ode, which is perhaps the finest, and most 
■characteristic of Wordsworth's compositions. A reader 
of his poetry, who imbibes its spirit, can scarcely look 
apon the young with iiidifference. The parent must 
thence derive a new sense of the saeredness of children, 
and learn to reverence their innocence, to leave unmar- 
•red their tender traits, and to yield them more confi- 
dently to tke influences of Nature. In his true and 
feeling chronicles of the " heaven " that " lies about us 
in our infancy," Wordsworth has uttered a silent but 
most eloquent reproach against all the absurdities and 
sacrilegious abuses of modern education. He has made 
known the truth, that children have tkeii- lessons to -con 
vej as well as receix'e : 
2* 



SVIU INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

" dearest, dearest boy, my heart 

For better lore would seldom yearn, 
Could I but teach the hundredth part 
Of what from thee I learn." 

He has made more evident the awful chasm between 
the reposo and hopefuhiess of happy childhood, and the 
cynical distrust of worldly age. He thus indirectly but 
forcibly appeals to men for a more guarded preservation 
of the early dew of existence, so recklessly lavished 
upon the desert of ambition : 

" Those first affections. 

Those shadowy recoUeetidns, 

Which, be they what they may. 

Are yet the fountain-light of all our day; 

Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; 

Uphold ua, cherish, and have power to make 

Our noisy years seem moments in the being 

Of the eternal silence." 

He has exemplified that the worst evil of life is rather 
acquired than inherited, and vindicated the beneficent 
designs of the Creator, by exhibiting humanity when 
fresh from his hand. This is a high moral service. Upon 
many of those who have become familiar with Words- 
worth in youth, such impressions must have been per- 
manent and invaluable, greatly influencing their observa- 
tion of life and nature, and touching " to finer issues" 
their unpledged sympathies. It is with the eye of a 
meditative poet that Wordsworth surveys life and na- 
ture. And thus inspired, a new elevation is imparted 
to " ordinary moral sensations," and it is the sentiment 
rather than the subject which gives interest to the song. 
Hence it is absolutely necessary that the reader should 
sympathize with the feelings of the poet, to enjoy or un 
derstand him. He appeals to that contemplative spirit 
which does not belong to all, and visits even its votaries 
but occasionally ; to " a sadness that has its seat in the 
depths of reason;" he professes to "follow the fluxes 
and refluxes of the mind when agitated by the great and 
simple affections of our nature." To enter into purposes 
tke these, there must exist a delicate sympathy with 



INtROD trC T Rt" ESSAY-. SIS 

bumaH natui-e, a reflective habit, a ming&g of teason 
and fancy, an imagination active, but not impassionedo 
The frame of mind which he labors to induce, and 'm 
which he must be read, is 

" That sweet raooS wlien pleasure loves to pay- 
Tribute to ease, And, of its joy fieoure, 
Tlie heart hixuriates with indifferent things, 
Wasting its kiHiilinesg on stock-s and stones, 
And on tfee Taca^it air;" 
* * V * , * 

'*' that serene and fclessc-d mood 

In which the affections gently lead us -on, 
■Until the breath of this corporeal •fra.me, 
•And even the motion of our human bloofi. 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a li'viKg soni. 
While, with an eye mafle quiet by the poW*f 
'Of -harmony, aad the deep power of joy, 
We see into -the life of things." 

T^hls calm and holy musing, this deep and iritififiat© 
communion with Nature, this spirit of peace, should 
sometimes visit us. There are periods when passionate 
poetry wearies, and a lively measure is discordant. 
There are times when we are calmed and softened, and 
it is a luxury to pause and forget the promptings of 
^desire and the cares of life ; when it is a relief to leave 
the crowd and wander into solitude; when, faint and 
disappointed, we seek, like tired children, the neglected 
feosora of Nature, and in the serenity of her maternai 
smile, find rest and soia-ee. Such moments redeem ex- 
istence from its monotony, and refresh the hwraan heart 
with dew from the urns of Peace. Then it is that the 
bard of Rydal Mount is like a brother, and we deeply 
feel that it is ^ood for us to have kuQwa h.im> 






POEMS 

OF 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



SONNET. 

lyrUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room ; 
And hermits are contented with their cells ; 
And students with their pensive citadels ; 
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom. 
Sit blithe and happy ; bees that soar for bloom. 
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, 
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : 
In truth the prison, unto which we doom 
Ourselves, no prison is : and hence to me. 
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound 
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground; 
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) 
Who have felt the weight of too much hberty, 
Should find brief solace there, as I have found. 
21 



22 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 



TO A SKY-LARK. 

XpTHEREAL minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 

Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will. 
Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; 

A privacy of glorious light is thine ; 

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; 

Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; 

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home ! 

1825. 



THE PET-LAMB. 

A PASTORAL. 

n^HE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink ; 
I heard a voice ; it said, " Drink, pretty creature, 

drink !" 
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied 
A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden at its 

side. 

Nor sheep nor kine were near ; the lamb was all 

alone. 
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone ; 
With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden 

kneel, 
While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening 

meal. 



THE PET -LAMB. 23 

The lamb, wliile from her hand he thus his supper 

took, 
Seemed to feast with head and ears ; and his tail 

with pleasure shook. 
"Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such a 

tone 
That I almost received her heart into my own. 

'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty 

rare ! 
I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair. 
Now with her empty can the maiden turned away : 
But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she 

stay. 

Right towards the lamb she looked ; and from a 

shady place 
I unobserved could see the workings of her face : 
If Natui-e to her tongue could measured numbers 

bring. 
Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little Maid might 

sing : 

" What ails thee, young One ? what ? Why pull 

so at thy cord ? 
Is it not well with thee ? well both for bed and 

board? 
Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; 
Rest, little young One, rest ; what is 't that aileth 

thee ? 

What is it thou wouldst seek ? What is wanting 

to thy heart ? 
Thy limbs are they not strong ? And beautiful 

thou art ; 



24 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

This grass is tender grass ; these flowers they have 

no peers ; 
And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears ! 

If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy wool- 
len chain, 

This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst 
gain; 

For rain and mountain-storms ! the like thou need'st 
not fear, 

The rain and storm are things that scarcely can 
come here. 

Rest, little young One, rest ; thou hast forgot the day 
When my father found thee first in places far away ; 
Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned 

by none. 
And thy mother from thy side for evermore was 

gone. 

He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee 

home : 
A blessed day for thee ! then whither wouldst thou 

roam ? 
A faithful nurse thou hast ; the dam that did thee 

yean 
Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been. 

Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee 

in this can 
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran ; 
And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with 

dew, 
I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and 

new. 



THE PET-LAMB. y!> 

Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are 

now. 
Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the 

plough ; 
My playmate thou shalt be ; and when the wind is 

cold 
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy 

fold. 

It will not, will not rest ! — Poor creature, can it be 
That 't is thy mother's heart which is working so in 

thee ? 
Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear, 
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see 

nor hear. 

Alas, the mountain-tops that, look so green and fair ! 
I 've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come 

there ; 
The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play. 
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey. 

Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky ; 
Night and day thou art safe, — our cottage is hard by. 
Why bleat so after me ? Why pull so at thy chain ? 
Sleep — and at break of day I will come to thee 
again !" 

— As homeward through the lane I went with lazy 

feet. 
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat ; 
And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line. 
That but half of it was her's, and one half of it was 







MM- 




2& WORDSWORTH'S PO'EMS. 






Again, and once again, did I repeat the song ; 






" Nay," said I, " more than- half to the damsel must 






belong. 






For she looked with such a look, and she spake' 


. 




with such a tone, 




, 


That I almost received her heart into my own." 






; 1800. 






, SONNJ^T. 






TX/^ITH Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh. 
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed ;- 


' 








Some lying fast at anchor in the road. 






Some veering up and down, one knew not why. 






A goodly Vessel did I then espy 






Come like a giant from a haven broad ;■ 






And lustily along the bay she strode, 






Her tackling rich, and of apparel high. 


, ; 




This Ship was naught to me, nor I to her,- 






Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look ; 






This Ship to all the rest did I prefer : 






When will she turn, and whither? She will brook 






No tarrying ; where She comes the winds must stir : 






On went She, and due north her journey took. 


^ 




ODE TO DUTY, 






"Jam non consilio bonus, sed more ed perductus, nt non tanttian reet* 


■ 




facere possim, sed nisi reetd facere non possim." 

Q TERN Daughter of the voice of God ! 
Duty ! if that name thou love 










Who art a light to guide, a rod 






To check the erring, and reprove j 






. 


p*-. 



ODE TO DUTY. S7 

Thou, fwho art victory ^iid law 

When empty terrors overawe ; 

From vain temptations dost set free ; 

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humamty'l 

Th«re are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them ; who, in love and trutli, 
Wh-ere no misgiving is, rely 
Op«n the .genial sense 'of y-outh: 
■Olad Hearts ! without reproach or blot^ 
Who do thy work, and know it not : 
'Oh ! if through confidence misplaced 
•They fail, thy saving arms, drea,d Power'! ar^uad 
them cast. 

Serene will be our €ays and bright. 

And happy wUl our nature be, 

When love is an unerring light, 

And joy its own security. 

And they a blissful course may hold 

Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 

'Live in the spirit of this creed .; 

Yet seek thy firm support, according t© their need.. 

I, Io\'ing freedom, and untried ; 

No sport of every random gust. 

Yet being to myself a guide, 

Too blindly have reposed my trust : 

And -oft, when in my heart was hear!. 

Thy timely mandate, I deferred 

The task, in smoother walks to stray. 

But thee I now would serve more stiictly, if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul, 
Or strong oompunction in me wrought. 



28 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

I supplicate for thy control ; 

But in the quietness of thought ; 

Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 

I feel the weight of chance-desires : 

My hopes no more must change their name, 

I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile xipon thy face t 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 
And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are 
fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power ! 

I call thee : I myself commend 

Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 

Oh, let my weakness have an end 1 

Give unto me, made lowly wise 

The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 

The confidence of reason give ; 

And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live ! 

1805. 



GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL. 

A TRUE STORY. 

/^H ! what 's the matter ? what 's the matter ? 

What is 't that ails young Harry Gill ? 
That evermore his teeth they chatter. 
Chatter, chatter, chatter still 1 






^GOObV BLAKE AND HAR"RY GILL, 

Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 
"G-ood duffel grey, and flannel fine"; 
He has a blanket on his bacls, 
And coats enough to smother tiiiie. 

In iMarch, December, and in July, 
'Tis all the same with Harry O-ill ; 
The neighbors tell, and tell you trulyv 
His teeth they chatter, cliatter still 
At night, at morning, and at noon, 
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill ; 
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon. 
His teeth they chatter, chatter stHll 

iToung Harry was a lusty drover. 
And who so stout of limb as he ? 
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover 5 
His voice was like the voice of three. 
-Old Ooody Blake was old and poor> 
111 fed sh€ was, and thinly clad ; 
And any man who passed her door 
-Might see how poor a hut she had. 

Afl day she spmn in her poor dwelling : 
And then her three hours' work at night, 
Alas ! 't was hardly worth the telling, 
It would not pay for candle-light. 
Eemote from sheltered village-green, 
On a hill's northern side she dwelt. 
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean. 
And hoary dews are slow to melt. 

By the same fire to bciil their pottage, 
Two poor old Dames, as I have known, 
Will often live in one small cottage ; 
But she, poor Woman ! housed alone. 



30 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

'T was well enough when summer came. 
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day. 
Then at her door the canty Dame 
Would sit, as any linnet, gay. 

But when the ice our streams did fetter. 
Oh then how her old bones would shake ! 
You would have said, if you had met her, 
'T was a hard time for Goody Blake. 
Her evenings then were dull and dead : 
Sad case it was, as you may think, 
For very cold to go to bed ; 
And then for cold sleep not a wink. 

joy for her ! whene'er in winter 
The winds at night had made a rout ; 
And scattered many a lusty splinter 
And many a rotten bough about. 
Yet never had she, well or sick. 
As every man who knew her says, 
A pile beforehand, turf or stick. 
Enough to warm her for three days. 

Now when the frost was past enduring. 
And made her poor old bones to ache. 
Could anything be more alluring, 
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake ? 
And, now and then, it must be said, 
When her old bones were cold and chill. 
She left her fire, or left her bed, 
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. 

Now Harry he had long suspected 
This trespass of old Goody Blake ; 
And vowed that she should be detected — ■■ 
That he on her would vengeance take. 







GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL. 31 


And oft from his warm fire lie 'd go, 




Aud to the fields his road would take ; 




And there, at night, iu frost and snow. 




. He watch'd to seize old Goody Blake. 


• 


And once, behind a rick of barley. 




Thus looking out did Harry stand : 




The moon was full and shining clearly, 




And crisp with frost the stubble land. 




- — He hears a noise — he 's all awake — - 




Again ? — on tip-toe down the hill 




He softly creeps — 't is Goody Blake ; 




She 's at the hedge of Harry Gill ! 




Right glad was he when he beheld her ; 




Stick after stick did Goody pull : 




He stood behind a bush of elder. 




Till she had filled her apron full. ; 




When with her load she turned about, 




The by-way back again to take ; 


i 


He started forward, with a shout, 




And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. 




i And fiercely by the arm he took her. 




i And by the arm he held her fast, | 




1 And fiercely by the arm he shook her, ' 




1 And cried, " I 've caught you then at last !" 




; Then Goody, who had nothing said. 




i Her bundle from her lap let fall ; 




And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 




To God that is the judge of all. 




She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, 




While Harry held her by the arm — 




" God ! who art never out of hearing, 




may he never more be warm !" 







82 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

The cold, cold moon above her head. 
Thus on her knees did Goody pray ; 
Young Harry heard what she had said : 
And icy cold he turned away. 

He went complaining all the morrow 
That he was cold and very chill ; 
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, 
Alas ! that day for Harry Gill ! 
That day he wore a riding-coat. 
But not a whit the warmer he : 
Another was on Thursday brought, 
And ere the Sabbath he had three. 

'T was all in vain, a useless matter. 
And blankets were about him pinned ; 
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 
Like a loose casement in the wind. 
And Harry's flesh it fell away ; 
And all who see him say 't is plain. 
That, live as long as live he may, 
He never will be warm again. 

No word to any man he utters, 
A-bed or up, to young or old ; 
But ever to himself he mutters, 
" Poor Harry Gill is very cold." 
A-bed or up, by night or day ; 
Hi s teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
Now think, ye farmers, all, I pray. 
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill. 



DEATH OF CHAKLES LAMB. 33 



WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF 
CHARLES LAMB. 

rpO a good Man of most dear memory 

This Stone is sacred. Here lie lies apart 
From the great city where he first drew breath, 
Was reared and taught ; and humbly earned his 

bread, 
To the strict labors of the merchant's desk 
By duty chained. Not seldom did those tasks 
Tease, and the thought of time so spent depress, 
His spirit, but the recompense was high ; 
Firm Independence, Bounty's rightful sire ; 
Affections, warm as sunshine, free as air ; 
And when the precious hours of leisure came, 
Knowledge and wisdom, gained from converse sweet 
With books, or while he ranged the crowded streets 
With a keen eye, and overflowing heart : 
So genius triumphed over seeming wrong, 
And poured out truth in works by thoughtful love 
Inspired — works potent over smiles and tears. 
And as round mountain-tops the lightning plays, 
Thus innocently sported, breaking forth 
As from a cloud of some grave sympathy. 
Humor and wild instinctive wit, and all 
The vivid flashes of his spoken words. 
From the most gentle creature nursed in fields 
Had been derived the name he bore — a name 
Wherever Christian altars have been raised, 
Hallowed to meekness and to innocence ; 
And if in him meekness at times gave way. 
Provoked out of herself by troubles strange. 
Many and strange, that hung about his life ; 
Still, at the centre of his being, lodged 



34 WOKDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

A soul by resignation sanctified ; 
And if too often, self-reproached, lie felt 
That innocence belongs not to our kind, 
A power that never ceased to abide in him, 
Charity, 'mid the multitude of sins 
That she can cover, left not his exposed 
To an unforgiving judgment from just Heaven. 
0, he was good, if ever a good man liv'd ! 
***** 

From a reflecting mind and sorrowing heart 
Those simple lines flowed with an earnest wish. 
Though but a doubting hope, that they might serve 
Fitly to guard the precious dust of him 
Whose virtues called them forth. That aim is 

missed ; 
For much that truth most urgently required 
Had from a faltering pen been asked in vain : 
Yet, haply, on the printed page received. 
The imperfect record, there, may stand unblamed 
As long as verse of mine shall breathe the air 
Of memory, or see the light of love. 

Thou wert a scorner of the fields, my Friend, 
But more in show than truth ; and from the fields, 
And from the mountains, to thy rural grave 
Transported, my soothed spirit hovers o'er 
Its green untrodden turf, and blowing flowers ; 
And taking up a voice shall speak (though still 
A- wed by the theme's peculiar sanctity 
Which words less free presumed not even to touch) 
Of that fraternal love, whose heaven-lit lamp 
From infancy, through manhood, to the last 
Of threescore years, and to thy latest hour, 
Burnt on with ever-strengthening light, enshrined 
Within thy bosom. 



DEATH OF CHARLES LAMB. 35 

" Wonderful " hath, been 
The love established between man and man, 
" Passing the love of women ;" and between 
Man and his help-mate in fast wedlock joined 
Through God, is raised a spirit and soul of love 
Without whose blissful influence Paradise 
Had been no Paradise ; and earth were now 
A waste where creatures bearing human form, 
Direst of savage beasts, would roam in fear. 
Joyless and comfortless. Our days glide on; 
And let him grieve who cannot choose but grieve 
That he hath been an elm without his Vine, 
And her bright dower of clustering charities 
That, round his trunk and branches, might have 

clung 
Enriching and adorning. Unto thee. 
Not so enriched, not so adorned, to thee 
Was given (say rather thou of later birth 
Wert given to her) a Sister — 't is a word 
Timidly uttered, for she lives, the meek. 
The self-restraining, and the ever-kind ; 
In whom thy reason and intelligent heart 
Found — for all interests, hopes, and tender cares, 
All softening, humanizing, hallowing powers 
Whether withheld, or for her sake unsought — 
More than sufficient recompense ! 

Her love 
(What weakness prompts the voice to tell it here ?) 
Was as the love of mothers ; and when years, 
Lifting the boy to man's estate, had called 
The long-protected to assume the part 
Of a protector, the first fihal tie 
Was undissolved ; and, in or out of sight, 
Remained imperishably interwoven 



36 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

With life itself. Thus, 'mid a shifting world. 

Did they together testify of time 

And season's difference — a double tree 

With two collateral stems sprung from one root ; 

Such were they — such thro' life they might have 

been 
In union, in partition only such ; 
Otherwise wrought the will of the Most High ; 
Yet, thro' all visitations and all trials, 
Still they were faithful ; like two vessels launched 
From the same beach one ocean to explore 
With mutual help, and sailing — to their league 
True, as inexorable winds, or bars 
Floating or fixed of polar ice, allow. 

But turn we rather, let my spirit turn 
With thine, silent and invisible Friend ! 
To those dear intervals, nor rare nor brief. 
When reunited, and by choice withdrawn 
From miscellaneous converse, ye were taught 
That the remembrance of foregone distress, 
And the worse fear of future ill (which oft 
Doth hang around it, as a sickly child 
Upon its mother) may be both alike 
Disarmed of power to unsettle present good 
So prized, and things inward and outward held 
In such an even balance, that the heart 
Acknowledges God's grace, his mercy feels, 
And in its depth of gratitude is sLill. 

gift divine of quiet sequestration ! 
The hermit, exercised in prayer and praise, 
And feeding daily on the hope of lieaven, 
Is happy in his vow, and fondly c!t; ives 



SONNET. — ALICE FELL. 37 

To life-long singleness ; but happier far 

Was to your souls, and, to the thoughts of others, 

A thousand times more beautiful appeared 

Your dual loneliness. The sacred tie 

Is broken ; yet why grieve ? for Time but holds 

His moiety in trust, till Joy shall lead 

To the blest world where parting is unknown. 

1835. 



THE RAINBOW. 

"lYTY heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky : 
So was it when my life began ; 
So is it now I am a man ; 
So be it when I shall grow old, 

Or let me die ! 
The Child is father of the Man ; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 



1804. 



ALICE FELL; 

OR, POVERTY. 



nPHE post-boy drove with fierce career, 

For threatening clouds the moon had drowned j 
When, as we hurried on, my ear 
Was smitten with a startling sound. 

As if the wind blew many ways 
I heard the sound, — and more and more ; 
It seemed to follow with the chaise, 
And still I heard it as before. 
4 



I WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

At length I to the boy called out ; 
He stopped his horses at the word. 
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,. 
JN'or aught else like it, could be heard.- 

The boy then smiacked his whip; and fast 
The horses scampered through the rain ; 
But, hearing soon upon the blast 
The cry, I bade him halt again. 

Forthwith- alighting on the ground, 

" Whence comes," said I, " this piteous- moait ?^' 

And there a little Girl I found 

Sitting behind the chaise, alone; 

" My cloak !" no other word she spake, 
But loud and bitterly she wept. 
As if her innocent heart would break ; 
And down from off her seat she leapt. 

"What ails you, ehild?" — she sobbed, "Lools 

here !" 
I saw it in the wheel entangled^ 
A weather-beaten rag as e'er 
From any garden scare-crow dangled. 

There, twisted between nave and spoke 
It hung, nor could at once be freed ; 
But our joint pains unloosed the cloak^^ 
A miserable rag indeed I 

" And whither are you going, child, 
To-night along these lonesome ways ?" 
" To Durham," answered she, half-wild— 
*' Then come with me into the chaise/' 



r 








A.LICE FELL. 3i 

Insensible to all relief 
Sat the poor girl, and forth did send 
Sob after sob, as if her grief 
■€ould never, never have an end. 




■ 


'" My child, in Durham do you dwell ?** 






She checked herself in her distress. 
And said, " My name is Alice Fell ,; 






I'm fatherless and motherless. 






And I to Burham, Sir, belong." 






Again, as if the thought would choke 






.Her very heart, her grief grew strong;; 






And all was for her tattered cloak ! 






The chaise drove on; our journey's eni 






Was nigh ; and, sitting by my side. 






As if she had lost her only friend 


; 




She wept, nor would be pacified. 


.: 




Up to the tavern-door we post; 




■ 


Of Alice and her grief I told.; 
And I gave money to the host. 






To buy a new cloak for the old. 






"And let it be of duffel grey. 






As warm a cloak as man can sell !" 






Proud creature was she the next day. 


\ 




The little orphan, Alice Fell ! 




■ 


i8^ 




»- 


1 



40 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE; 

O R, 

THE FATE OF THE NORTONS. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

During? the Summer of 1807, I visited, for the first time, the Deautiful 
country that surrounds Bolton Priory, in Yorkshire; and the Poem of 
the White Doe, founded upon a Tradition connected with that place, 
was composed at the close of the same year. 



DEDICATION. 

In trellised shed with clustering roses gay, 

And, Mary! oft beside our blazing fire, 

When years of wedded life were as a day 

Whose current answers to the heart's desire, 

Did we together read in Spenser's Lay 

How Una, sad of soul — in sad attire, 

The gentle Una, of celestial birth, 

To seek her Knight went wandering o'er the eartii. 

Ah, then, Beloved ! pleasing was the smart. 

And the tear precious in compassion shed 

For Her, who. pierced by sorrow's thrilling darfe,. 

Did meekly bear the pang unmerited ; 

Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart 

The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led,- 

And faithful, loyal in her Innocence, 

Like the brave Lion slain in her defence. 

Notes could we hear as of a faery shell 
Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught ; 
Free Fancy prized each specious miracle. 
And all its finer inspiration caught ; 
Till in the bosom of our rustic Cell, 
We by a liimeutable change were taught 
That " bliss with mortal Mun may not abido :>' 
How nearly joy and sorrow are allied 

For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow, 
For US the voice of melody was mute. 
— But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow, 
And give the timid herbage leave to shoot, 
Heaven's breathing influence failed not to bestow 
A timely promise of unlooked-for fruit. 
Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content 
From blossoms wild of fancies innocent. 



'^ 




-^ 


• 


■^rHSWHIT-E DOE OF RYL ST ONE. 4i 






It soothecl ns— it Iwguiled tts— then, to hear 
Once more of troubles -wrought by magic spell | 




: 


And griefs whose aery motion comes not near 






The pangs that tempt the Spirit to rebel: 




\ 


Then, with mild Una in her sober cheerj 
High over hill and low adown the dell 
Again we wandered, willing to partake 


■i 




All that she suffered for her dear Lord's sake. 


i 


■ 


^iea, too,-this Song of mine once mote could pleaSe, 






Where anguish, strange as dreams of restless sleep, 


;■ 




■Is tempered and allayed by sympathies 






'Aloft asctending, and descending deep, 




■ 


'Even to the inferior Kinds ; whom forest-trees 
■Protect from beating sunbeams, and the sweep 




J 


'Of the sharp winds;— frjr Creatures ! — to whom HeaVSSl 






■A calm anS sinless life, with love, hath given. 




< '. 


■This tragic story cheered us ; for it speafes 


: 


i , 


''Of female patience winning firm repose ; 




I 


And, of the recompense that conscience seeks, 






A bright, encouraging example shows ; 






Needful when o'er wide realms the t-empsst break* 




\ . 


-Needful amid life's ordinary woes ; — 
'Hence, not for them unfitted who would bless 
A happy hour with bolier happiness. 


I 


i 


'He serves the Muses erringly and ill, 






Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive : 




i 


'-0, that my mind were e<3.ual to fulfil 

The comprehensive mandate which they giTe^^ 






^ain aspiration of an earnest will '. 




% 


Yet in this moral Strain a power may live. 




, . 


Beloved Wife I such solace to impart 






As it hath yielded to thy tender^ heart. 






Kydal Mount, Westmoreland, 




: ■ 


AprU 20, 1815. 




'" Action is transitory— a step, a blow, 


''■ 


The motion of a muscle,— this way or tliafc— 




; , 


'T is done; and in the after- vacancy 




• 


We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed 




■ . 


Suffering is permanent, obscure, and dark, 




., 


And has the nature of infinity. 






Yet through that darkness (infinite though it s^eija 
And irremovable) gracious openings lie 




• 


By which the soul — with patient steps of thought 






Now toiling, wafted now on wings of prayer — 






May pass in hope, and, though from mortal bonds 






Yet undelivered, rise with sure ascent 






Even to the fountain-head of peace divine.'' 




[ 


4* 











42 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

" They that deny a God, destroy Man's Hobility : for certainly Man ia 
of kinn to the B«ast by his Body ; and if he he not of kian to God by 
his Spirit, he is a base ignoble Creature. It destroys likewise Magna- 
nimity, and the raising of humane Nature : for take an example of a 
Dogg, and mark what a generosity and courage he will put on, when he 
finds himself maintained by a Man, who to him is instead of a God, or 
Melior Natura. Which courage is manifestly such, as that Creature 
without that confidence of a better Nature than his own comld neTei 
attain. So Man, when he resteth and assureth himself upon Divine pro- 
tection and favour, gathereth a force and faith which human Natura 
in itself could not obtain," — Lord Bacon. 

CABTTO FIRST. 

T^ROM BoIton^s old monastic tower 

The bells ring loud with gladsome power ; 
The sun shines bright ; the fields are gay 
With people in their best array 
Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf, 
Along the banks of crystal Wharf, 
Through the Vale retired and lowly. 
Trooping to that summons holy. 
And, up among the moorlands, see 
What sprinklings of blithe company I 
Of lasses and of shepherd grooms, 
That down the steep hills force their way^ 
Like cattle through the budded brooms j 
Path, or no path, what care they ? 
And thus in joyous mood they hie 
To Bolton's mouldering Priory. 

What would they there ? — Full fifty years 
That sumptuous Pile, with all its peers, 
Too harshly hath been doomed to taste 
The bitterness of wrong and waste : 
Its courts are ravaged ; but the tower 
Is standing with a voice of power. 
That ancient voice which wont to call 
To mass or some high festival ; 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYL8T0NB. 43 

And in the shattered fabric's heart 
Remaineth one protected part ; 
A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest, 
Closely embowered and trimly drest ; 
And thither young and old repair, 
This Sabbath-day for praise and prayer. 

Fast the church-yard fills ;— anon 
Look again, and they all are gone ; 
The cluster round the porch, and the folk 
Who sat in the shade of the Prior's Oak ! 
And scarcely have they disappeared 
Ere the prelusive hymn is heard : — ' 
"With one consent the people rejoice 
Filling the church with a lofty voice 
They sing a service which they feel ; 
For 't is the sunrise now of zeal ; 
Of a pure faith the vernal prime — > 
In great Eliza's golden time. 

A moment ends the fervent din, 
And all is hushed, without and within ; 
For though the priest, more tranquilly, 
Recites the holy liturgy. 
The only voice which you can hear, 
Is the river murmuring near. 
— ^AVhen soft ! — the dusky trees between, 
And down the path through the open green, 
"Where is no living thing to be seen ; 
And through yon gateway, where is found, 
Beneath the arch with ivy bound. 
Free entrance to the church-yard ground — 
Comes gliding in with lovely gleam. 
Comes gliding in serene and slow, 



14 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Soft and silent as a dream, 

A solitary Doe ! 

White she is as lily of June, 

And beauteous as the silver moon 

When out of sight the clouds are driven 

And she is left alone in heaven; 

Or like a ship some gentle day 

In sunshine sailing far away, 

A glittering ship, that hath the plain 

Of ocean for her own domain. 

Lie silent in your graves, ye dead ! 
Lie quiet in your church-yard bed ! 
Ye living, tend your holy cares ; 
Ye multitudes, pursue your prayers ; 
And blame not me if my heart and sight 
Are occupied with one delight ! 
'T is a work for Sabbath hours 
If I with this bright Creature go ; 
Whether she be of forest bowers, 
From the bowers of earth below ; 
Or a Spirit for one day given, 
A pledge of grace from purest heaven. 

What harmonious pensive changes 
Wait upon her as she ranges 
Hound and through this Pile of state 
Overthrown and desolate! 
Now a step or two her way 
Leads through space of open day, 
Where the enamor'd sunny light 
Brightens her that was so bright ; 
Now doth a delicate shadow fall, 
Falls upon her like a breath, 



THE WHITE DOB OF RYLSTONE. 45 

From some lofty arch or wall. 

As slie passes underneath : 

Now some gloomy nook partakes 

Of the glory that she makes, — 

High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell. 

With perfect cunning framed as well 

Of stone, and ivy, and the spread 

Of the elder's bushy head ; 

Some jealous and forbidding cell, 

That doth the living stars repel. 

And where no flower hath leave to dwell. 

The presence of this wandering Doe 
Fills many a damp, obscure, recess 
With lustre of a saintly show ; 
And, reappearing, she no less 
Sheds on the flowers that round her blow 
A more than sunny liveliness. 
But say, among these holy places. 
Which thus assiduously she paces. 
Comes she with a votary's task. 
Rite to perform, or boon to ask ? 
Fair Pilgrim ! harbors she a sense 
Of sorrow, or of reverence ? 
Can she be grieved for quire or shrine, 
Crushed as if by wrath divine ? 
For what survives of house where God 
Was worshipped, or where Man abode ; 
For old magnificence undone ; 
Or for the gentler work begun 
By Nature, softening and concealing. 
And busy with a hand of healing ? 
Mourns she for lordly chamber's hearth 
That to the saphng ash gives birth ; 



tb WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

For dormitory's length laid bare 
Where the wild rose blossoms fair ; 
Or altar, whence the cross was rent, 
Now rich with mossy ornament ? 
— She sees a warrior carved in stone, 
Among the thick weeds, stretched alone ; 
A warrior, with his shield of pride 
Cleaving humbly to his side. 
And hands in resignation prest, 
Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast ; 
As little she regards the sight 
As a common creature might : 
If she be doomed to inward care, 
Or service, it must lie elsewhere. 
— But hers are eyes serenely bright, 
And on she moves — with pace how light ! 
Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste 
The dewy turf with flowers bestrown ; 
And thus she fares, until at last 
Beside the ridge of a grassy grave 
In quietness she lays her down : 
Gentle as a weary wave 
Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died, 
Against an anchored vessel's side ; 
Even so, without distress, doth she 
Lie down in peace, and lovingly. 

The day is placid in its going. 
To a lingering motion bound, 
Like the crystal stream now flowing 
With its softest summer sound : 
So the balmy minutes pass, 
While this radiant Creature lies 



THE WHITE DOB OF RfLSTONE. 47 

Couched upon the dewy grass, 

Pensively with downcast eyes. 

— But now again the people raise 

With awful cheer the voice of praise ; 

It is the last, the parting song ; 

And from the temple forth they throng, 

And quickly spread themselves abroad. 

While each pursues his several road. 

But some — a variegated band 

Of middle-aged, and old, and young, 

And little children by the hand 

Upon their leading mothers hung— - 

With mute obeisance gladly paid, 

Turn towards the spot, where, full in view. 

The white Doe, to her service true. 

Her Sabbath couch has made. 

It was a solitary mound 
Which two spears' length of level ground 
Did from all other graves divide ; 
As if in some respect of pride ; 
Or melancholy's sickly mood. 
Still shy of human neighborhood ; 
Or guilt, that humbly would express 
A penitential loneliness. 

" Look, there she is, my Child ! draw near; 
She fears not, wherefore should we fear ? 
She means no harm ;" — but still the Boy, 
To whom the words were softly said. 
Hung back, and smiled, and blush'd for joy, 
A shame-faced blush of glowing-red ! 
Again the mother whispered low, 
*• Now you have seen the famous Doe ; 



48 "WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

From Rylstone she hath found her way 
Over the hills this Sabbath day ; 
Her work, whate'er it be, is done. 
And she will depart Avhen we are gone ; 
Thus doth she keep, from year to year, 
Her Sabbath morning, foul or fair." 

Bright was the Creature, as in dreams 

The Boy had seen her, yea, more bright ; 

But is she truly what she seems ? 

He asks with insecure delight. 

Asks of hirnself, and doubts, — and still 

The doubt returns against his will : 

Though he, and all the standers-by, 

Could tell a tragic history 

Of facts divulged, wherein appear 

Substantial motive, reason clear. 

Why thus the milk-white Doe is found 

Couchant beside that lonely mound ; 

And why she duly loves to pace 

The circuit of this hallowed place. 

Nor to the Child's inquiring mind 

Is such perplexity confined : 

For, spite of sober Truth that sees 

A world of fixed remembrances 

Which to this mystery belong, 

If, undeceived, my skill can trace 

The characters of every face. 

There lack not strange delusion here, 

Conjecture vague, and idle fear. 

And superstitious fancies strong, 

Which do the gentle Creature wrong. 

That bearded, stafi^-supported Sire — 
Who in his boyhood often fed 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 49 

Full cheerily on convent-bread, 

And heard old tales by the convent-fire 

And to his grave will go with scars. 

Relics of long and distant wars — 

That Old Man, studious to expound 

The spectacle, is mounting high 

To days of dim antiquity ; 

When Lady Aaliza mourned 

Her Son, and felt in her despair 

The pang of unavailing prayer ; 

Her Son in Wharf 's abysses drowned, 

The noble Boy of Egremound. 

From which affliction — when the grace 

Of Grod had in her heart found place — 

A pious structure, fair to see, 

Rose up, this stately Priory ! 

The Lady's work ; — but now laid low ; 

To the grief of her soul that doth come and go. 

In the beautiful form of this innocent Doe : 

Which, though seemingly doomed in its breast to 

sustain 
A softened remembrance of sorrow and pain. 
Is spotless, and holy, and gentle, and bright: 
And glides o'er the earth like an angel of light. 

Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door; 
And, through the chink in the fractured floor 
Look down, and see a grisly sight ; 
A vault where the bodies are buried upright ! 
There, face by face, and hand by hand. 
The Claphams and Mauleverers stand ; 
And in his place, among son and sire. 
Is John de Clapham, that fierce Esquire, 



50 WaKDSWQETH'S POEMS. 

A valiant man, and a name of dread 

In the ruthless wars of the White and Red;. 

Who dragged Earl Pembroke from Bantory 

cbxirch 
And smote off his head on the stones ol the 

porch ! 
Look down among them, if you dare ;. 
Oft does the White Doe loiter there,. 
Prying into the darksome rent ; 
l^or can it be with good intent : 
So thinks that Dame of haughty air,. 
Who hatk a Page her book to hold. 
And wears a frontlet edged with gold. 
Harsh thoughts with her high mood agree— - 
Who counts among her ancestry 
Earl Pembroke, slaio so impiously ! 

'Thait slender Youtb, a scholar pafe 
From Oxford come to his native vale. 
He also hath his own eonceit: 
It is, thinks he, the gracious Fairy, 
Who loved the Shepherd -lord to meet 
In his wanderings solitary ; 
Wild notes she in his hearing saag, 
A song of Nature's hidden powers ; . 
That whistled like the wind, and rang- 
Among the rocks and holly bowers. 
T was said that She all shapes could wear ;. 
And oftentimes before him stood, 
Amid the trees of some thick wood. 
In semblance of a lady fair ; 
And taught him signs, and showed him sights. 
In Craven's dens, on Cumbrian heights ; 



THE WHITE DOE OF EYLSTONE. M 

Whea under cloud of fear be lay, 
A shepherd clad in homely grey; 
Nor left him at his later day. 
And hence when he, with spear and shield. 
Rode full of years to Flodden-field, 
His eye could see the hidden spring. 
And how the current was to flow.; 
The fatal end of Scotland's King, 
And all that hopeless overthrow, 
But not in wars did he delight. 
This Clifford wished for worthier might; 
Jfor in broad pomp, or courtly state ; 
Him his own thoughts did elevate, — 
Most happy in the shy recess 
Of Barden's lowly quietness. 
And choice of studious friends bad be 
Of Bolton's dear fraternity ; 
Who, standing on this old church tower. 
In many a calm propitious hour, 
'Perused, with him, thy starry sky ; 
Or, in their cells, with him did pry 
For other lore, by keen desire. 
Urged to close toil with ebemic fire ; 
In quest belike of transmutations 
Rich as the mine's most bright creations. 
But they and their good works are fled, 
And all is now disquieted — 
And peace is none, for living or deadl 

Ab, pensive JSeh®lar, think not so. 
But loo^k again at the radiant Doe ! 
What quiet watch she seems to keep, 
Alone, beside that grassy heap I 



52 WORDS WORTH'S POEMS. 

Why mention other thoughts unmeet 
For vision so composed and sweet ? 
While stand the people in a ring. 
Gazing, doubting, questioning ; 
Yea, many overcome in spite 
Of recollections clear and bright ; 
Which yet do unto some impart 
An undisturbed repose of heart. 
And all the assembly own a law 
Of orderly respect and awe ; 
But see — they vanish one by one. 
And last, the Doe herself is gone. 

Harp ! we have been full long beguiled 
By vague thoughts, lured by fancies wild ; 
To which, with no reluctant strings, 
Thou hast attuned thy murmurings ; 
And now before this Pile we stand 
In solitude, and utter peace : 
But, Harp ! thy murmurs may not cease— 
A Spirit, with his angelic wings. 
In soft and breeze-like visitings. 
Has touched thee — and a Spirit's hand; 
A voice is with us — a command 
To chant, in strains of heavenly glory, 
A tale of tears, a mortal story ! 



CANTO SECOND. 



The Harp in lowliness obeyed ; 

And first we sang of the green-wood shade 

And a solitary Maid ; 

Beginning, where the song must end. 



THE WHITE DOE '03? BYLSTONE. 

With her, and with her sylvan Friend ; 
^he Friend who stood before her sight. 
Her ©nly unextinguished light ; 
Her last companion in a dearth 
'Of love, upon a hopel-ess earth. 

For She it was-^this Maid, who wrought 
Meekly, with foreboding thought. 
In vermeil colors and in gold 
An unblest work ; which, standing \)f, 
Her Father did with joy behold,-^ 
Exulting in its imagery ; 
A Banner, fashioned to fulfil 
Too perfectly his headstrong will : 
For on this Banner had her hand 
Embroidered (such her Sire's command) 
The sacred Cross ; and figured there 
The five dear wounds our Lord d:id bear> 
S'ull soon to he uplifted high. 
And float in rueful company I 

It was the time when England's Queen 
Twelve years had reigned, a Sovereign dread ; 
Jfor y«t the restless crown had beea 
Disturbed upon her virgin head; 
Bnt now the inly-working North 
Was ripe to send its thousands forth, 
A potent vassalage, to fight 
In Percy's and in Neville's right. 
The two Earls fast leagued in discontents, 
Who gave their wishes open vent; 
And boldly urged a general plea 
The rites of ancient piety 
To be triumphantly restored. 
By the stem justice of the sword I 



54 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

And that same Banner, on whose breast 
The blameless Lady had exprest 
Memorials chosen to give life 
And sunshine to a dangerous strife J 
That Banner, waiting for the Call, 
Stood quietly in Rylstone-hall, 

It came ; and Francis Norton said, 
" Father ! rise not in this fray — 
The hairs are white upon your head j 
Dear Father, hear me when I say 
It is for you too late a day ! 
Bethink you of your own good name:: 
' A just and gracious Queen have we^ 
A pure religion, and the claim 
Of peace on our humanity. — 
'T is meet that I endure your scorn ; 
I am your son, your eldest born ; 
But not for lordship or for land. 
My Father, do I clasp your knees ; 
The Banner touch not, stay your hand^ 
This multitude of men disband, 
And live at home in blameless ease ; 
For these my brethren's sake, for me ; 
And, most of all, for Emily !" 

Tumultuous noises filled the hall ; 
And scarcely could the Father hear 
That name — pronounced with a dying fall- 
The name of his only Daughter dear. 
As on the banner which stood near 
He glanced a look of holy pride. 
And his moist eyes were glorified ; 
Then did he seize the staff, and say ; 




THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 55 

" Thou, Richard, bear'st thy father's name, 
Keep thou this ensign till the day 
When I of thee require the same : 
Thy place be on my better hand ; — - 
And seven as true as thou, I see, 
Will cleave to this good cause and me." 
He spake, and eight brave sons straightway 
All followed him, a gallant band ! 

Thus, with his sons, when forth he came 
The sight was hailed with loud acclaim 
And din of arms and minstrelsy, 
From all his warlike tenantry, 
All horsed and harnessed with him to ride,-'— 
A voice to which the hills replied ! 

But Francis, in the vacant hall, 
Stood silent under dreary weight,-— 
A phantasm, in which roof and wall 
Shook, tottered, swam before his sight ; 
A phantasm like a dream of night ! 
Thus overwhelmed, and desolate, 
He found his way to a postern-gate ; 
And, when he waked, his languid eye 
Was on the calm and silent sky ; 
With air about him breathing sweet, 
And earth's green grass beneath his feet J 
Nor did he fail ere long to hear 
A sound of military cheer, 
Faint — but it reached that sheltered spot ; 
He heard, and it disturbed him not. 

There stood he, leaning on a lance 
Which he had grasped imknowingly, 



««^ 



i WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Had blindly grasped in that strong trance, 

That dimness of heart-agony ; 

There stood he, cleansed frona the despair 

And sorrow of his fruitless prayer. 

The past he calmly hath reviewed ; 

But where will be the fortitude 

Of this brave man, when he shall see 

That Form beneath the spreading tree, 

And know that it is Emily ? 

He saw her where in open view 
She sate beneath the spreading yew — 
Her head upon her lap, concealing 
In solitude her bitter feeling : 
" Might ever son command a sire, 
The act were justified to-day." 
This to himself — and to the Maid, 
Whom now he had approached, he said— 
" Gone are they,—- they have their desire ; 
And I with thee one hour will stay, 
To give thee comfort if I may." 

She heard, but looked not up, nor spake ; 
And sorrow moved him to partake 
Her silence ; then his thoughts turned round* 
And fervent words a passage found. 

" Gone are they, bravely, though misled ; 
With a dear Father at their head ! 
The Sons obey a natural lord ; 
The Father had given solemn word 
To noble Percy ; and a force 
Still stronger, bends him to his course. 
This said, our tears to-day may fall 
As at an innocent funeral. 



THE WHITE DOE OF EYLSTONE. 57 

In deep and awful channel runs 
This sympathy of Sire and Sons ; 
Untried our Brothers have been loved 
With heart by simple nature moved ; 
And now their faithfulness is proved : 
For faithful we must call them, bearing 
That soul of conscientious daring. 
— There were they all in circle — there 
Stood Richard, Ambrose, Christopher, 
John with a sword that did not fail. 
And Marmaduke in fearless mail, 
And those bright Twins were side by side ; 
And there, by fresh hopes beautified, 
Stood He, whose arm yet lacks the power 
Of man, our youngest, fairest flower ! 
I, by the right of eldest born. 
And in a second father's place. 
Presumed to grapple with their scorn, 
And meet their pity face to face ; 
Yea, trusting in God's holy aid, 
I to my Father knelt and prayed ; 
And one, the pensive Marmaduke, 
Methought was yielding inwardly. 
And would have laid his purpose by. 
But for a glance of his Father's eye, 
Which I niyself could scarcely brook. 

Then be we, each and all, forgiven ! 
Thou, chiefly thou, my Sister dear. 
Whose pangs are registered in Heaven — 
The stifled sigh, the hidden tear. 
And smiles, that dared to take their place. 
Meek filial smiles, upon thy face, 



58 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

As tliat unhallowed Banner grew. 

Beneath a loving old Man's view. 

Thy part is done — thy painful part ; 

Be thou then satisfied in heart ! 

A further, though far easier task 

Than thine hath been, my duties ask ; 

With theirs my efforts cannot blend, 

I cannot for such cause contend ; 

Their aims I utterly forswear ; 

But I in body will be there. 

Unarmed and naked will I go, 

Be at their side, come weal or woe : 

On kind occasions I may wait. 

See, hear, obstruct, or mitigate. 

Bare breast I take and an empty hand." — * 

Therewith he threw away the lance. 

Which he had grasped in that strong trance ; 

Spurned it, like something that would stand 

Between him and the pure intent 

Of love on which his soul was bent. 

" For thee, for thee, is left the sense 
Of trial past without offence 
To God or man ; such innocence, 
Such consolation, and the excess 
Of an unmerited distress ; 
In that thy very strength must lie. 
Sister ! I could prophesy ! 
The time is come that rings the knell 
Of all we loved, and loved so well : 
Hope nothing, if I thus may speak 
To thee, a woman, and thence weak : 

* See the Old Ballad,—" The Rising of the North." 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 59 

Hope nothing, I repeat ; for we 

Are doomed to perish utterly : 

'T is meet that thou with me divide 

The thought while I am by thy side, 

Acknowledging a grace in this, 

A comfort in the dark abyss. 

But look not for me when I am gone. 

And be no farther wrought upon : 

Farewell all wishes, all debate. 

All prayers for this cause, or for that ! 

Weep, if that aid thee ; but depend 

Upon no help of outward friend ; 

Espouse thy doom at once, and cleave 

To fortitude witlaout reprieve. 

For we must fall, both we and ours — 

This Mansion and these pleasant bowers, 

Walks, pools, and arbors, homestead, hall — 

Our fate is theirs, will reach them all ; 

The young horse must forsake his manger. 

And learn to glory in a Stranger ; 

The hawk forget his perch ; the hound 

Be parted from his ancient ground : 

The blast will sweep us all away — 

One desolation, one decay ! 

And even this Creature !" which words saying. 

He pointed to a lovely Doe, 

A few steps distant, feeding, straying ; 

Fair creature, and more white than snow ! 

" Even she will to her peaceful woods 

Return, and to her murmuring floods, 

And be in heart and soul the same 

She was before she hither came ; 

Ere she had learned to love us all, 

Herself beloved in Rylstone-hall, 



60 WOEDSWtrRTH'S POEMS. 

■ — But thou, my Sister, doomed to be 
The last leaf on a blasted tree ; 
If not in vain we breathed the breath 
Together of a purer faith ; 
If hand in hand we have been led, 
And thou (0 happy thought this day !) 
Not seldom foremost in the way ; 
If on one thought our minds have fed, 
And we have in one meaning read ; 
If, when at home our private weal 
Hath suffered from the shock of zeal, 
Together we have learned to prize 
Forbearance and self-sacrifice ; 
If we like combatants have fared. 
And for this issue been prepared ; 
If thou art beautiful, and youth 
And thought endue thee with all truth- 
Be strong ; — be worthy of the grace 
Of God, and fill thy destined place : 
A Soul, by force of sorrows high. 
Uplifted to the purest sky 
Of undisturbed humanity !" 

He ended, — or she heard no more ; 
He led her from the yew-tree shade. 
And at the mansion's silent door. 
He kissed the consecrated Maid ; 
And down the valley then pursued. 
Alone the armed multitude. 



CANTO THIRD. 



Now joy for you who from the towers 
Of Brancepeth look in doubt and fear. 



J 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 61 

Telling melancholy hours ! 
Proclaim it, let )''our Masters hear, 
That Norton -vnth his band is near ! 
The watchmen from their station high, 
Pronounced the word, — and the Earls descry, 
Well-pleased, the armed Company 
Marching down the banks of Were. 

Said fearless Norton to the pair 
Gone forth to greet him on the plain — 
" This meeting, noble Lords ! looks fair. 
I bring with me a goodly train ; 
Their hearts are with you : hill and dale 
Have helped us : Ure we crossed, and Swale, 
And horse and harness followed — see 
The best part of their Yeomanry ! 
— Stand forth, my Sons ! — these eight are mine. 
Whom to this service I commend 
Which way soe'er our fate incline. 
These will be faithful to the end ; 
They are my all " — voice failed him here — 
" My all, save one, a daughter dear ! 
Whom I have left. Love's mildest birth. 
The meekest Child on this blessed earth 
I had — but these are by my side. 
These Eight, and this is a day of pride ! 
The time is ripe. With festive din 
Lo ! how the people are flocking in, — 
Like hungry fowl to the feeder's hand 
When snow lies heavy upon the land." 

He spake bare truth ; for far and near 
From every side came noisy swarms 
Of Peasants in their homely gear ; 
And, mixed with these, to Brancepeth came 
6 







62 WORDSWOKTH'S POEMS, 




Grave Gentry of estate and name^ 




! And Captains known for worth in arms ;: 




And prayed the Earls in self-defence 




To rise, and prove their innocence, — 




*' Rise, noble Earls, put forth your might 




For holy Church and the People's right !'* 




Tlie Norton fixed, at this demand, 




His eye upon Northumberland, 




And said ; " The Minds of Men will owns 




No loyal rest while England's Crown 




Remains without an Heir, the bait 




Of strife and factions desperate ;. 




Who, paying deadly hate in kind 




Through all things else, in this can find 




A mutual hope, a common mind ; 




And plot and pant to overwhelm 




All ancient honor in the realm. 




— Brave Earls ! to whose heroic veins 




Our noblest blood is given in trust. 




To you a suffering State complains, 




And ye must raise her from the dust. 




"With wishes of still bolder scope 




On you we look, with dearest hope ', 




Even for our Altars — for the prize 




In Heaven of life that never dies ; 




For the old and holy Church we mourn. 




And must in joy to her return. 




Behold !" — and from his Son whose stand 




Was on his right, from that guardian hand 




He took the Banner, and unfurled 




The precious folds — " behold," said he. 




" The ransom of a sinful world ; 




Let this your preservation be ; 




1 



r~ 


- 






THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 63 






The wounds of hands and feet and side, 
And the sacred Cross on which Jesus died! 






— This bring I from an ancient hearth. 






These Records wrought in pledge of love 






By hands of no ignoble birth, 

A Maid 'o'er whom the blessed Dove ; 






Vouchsafed in gentleness to brood 




. 


While she the holy work pursued." 




-:■ 


^' Uplift the Standard 1" was the cry 




, 


From all the listeners that stood round. 






■" Plant it, — by this we live or die." 




.. 


The Norton ceased not for that sound. 




\ 


But said ; " The prayer which ye have heard. 






Much injured Earls ! by these preferred. 




■ 


Is offered to the Saints, the sigh 




- 


Of tens of thousands, secretly." 




■■ 


" Uplift it !" cried once more the Band, 




; 


And then a thoughtful pause ensued. 




•, 


" Uplift it !" said Northumberland — 


, 


' 


Whereat, from all the multitude 






Who saw the Banner reared on high 






In all its dread emblazonry. 






A voice of uttermost joy brake out : 






The transport was rolled down the river of Were, 
And Durham, the time-honored Durham, did 




' 


hear, 
And the towers of Saint Cuthbert were stirred 




' 


by the shout ! 




, 


Now was the North m arms : — they shiae 






In warlike trim from Tweed to Tyne, 






At Percy's voice : and Neville sees 
His followers gathering in from Tees, 




1 






L= 




1 





64 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

From Were, and all the little rills 

Concealed among the forked hills — 

Seven hundred Kniglits, Retainers all 

Of Neville, at their Master's call 

Had sate together in Raby Hall ! 

Such strength that Earldom held of yore j 

Nor wanted at this time rich store 

Of well-appointed chivalry, 

— Not loth the sleepy lance to wield,. 

And greet the oM paternal shield, 

They heard the summons ;: — and, furthermore. 

Horsemen and Foot of each degree. 

Unbound by pledge of fealty, 

Appeared, with free and open hate 

Of novelties in Church and State ; 

Knight, burgher, yeoman, and esquire : 

And Romish priest, in priest's attire. 

And thus, in arms, a zealous Band 

Proceeding under joint command. 

To Durham first their course they bear ; 

And in Saint Cuthbert's ancient seat 

Sang mass, — and tore the book of prayer,— 

And trod the Bible beneath their feet. 

Thence marching southward smooth and free 
" They mustered their host at Wetherby, 
Full sixteen thousand fair to see ;"* 
The Choicest Warriors of the North ! 
But none for beauty and for worth 
Like those eight Sons — who, in a ring 
(Ripe men, or blooming in life's spring) 
Each with a lance, erect and tall, 
A falchion, and a buckler small, 

* From the Old BaUadi. 



THE WHITiG DGB OF SYLSTONE. 6 

Stood b}' their Sire, on Clifford-moor, 
To gmard ihe Standard which he bore.. 
On foot they girt their Father round ; 
And so will keep the appointed gronnd 
Where'er their march : no steed will he 
Henceforth bestride ; — triumphantly, 
He stands upon the grassy sod, 
Trusting himself to the earth, and God^ 
Hare sight to embolden and inspire ! 
Proud was the field of Sons and Sire | 
Of him the most ; and, sooth to say, 
No shape of man in all the array 
■So graced the sunshine of that day^, 
The monumental pomp of age 
Was with this goodly Personage ^ 
A stature undepressed in size, 
Unbent, which rather seemed to rise. 
In open victory o'er the weight 
Of seventy years, to loftier height ; 
Magnific limbs of withered state : 
A face to fear and venerate ; 
Eyes dark and strong ; and on his head 
Bright locks of silver hair, thick spread. 
Which a brown morion half-concealed. 
Light as a hunter's of the field ; 
And thus, with girdle round his waist, 
Whereon the Banner-staff might rest 
At need, he stood, advancing high 
The glittering, floating Pageantry. 

Who sees him?— thousands see, and One 
With unparticipated gaze ; 
Who, 'mong those thousands, friend hath none. 
And treads in solitary ways, 

i5* 



66 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS'. 

He, following wheresoe'er he might, 

Hath watched the Banner from afar. 

As shepherds watch a lonely star, 

Or mariners the distant light 

That guides them through a stormy nigM,^ 

And now, upon a chosen plot 

Of rising ground, yon heathy spot I 

He takes alone his far-off stand, 

With breast unmailed, unweaponed hand.- 

Bold is his aspect ; but his eye 

Is pregnant with anxietj'^. 

While, like a tutelary Power, 

He there stands fixed from hour to how %- 

Yet sometimes in more humble guise. 

Upon the turf-clad height he lies 

Stretched, herdsman-hke, as if to basb 

In sunshine were his only task. 

Or, by his mantle's help to find 

A shelter from the nipping wind : 

And thus, with short oblivion, blest,- 

His weary spirits gather rest. 

Again he lifts his eyes ; and lo !- 

The pageant glancing to and fro; 

And hope is wakened by the sight. 

He thence may learn, ere fall of night. 

Which way the tide is doomed to flow. 

To London were the Chieftains bent ; 
But what avails the bold intent ? 
A Royal army is gone forth 
To quell the Rising of the North ; 
They march with Dudley at their head, 
And in seven days' space, will to York be le(J 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYL8T0NB. 67 

Can such a mighty Host be raised 
Thus suddenly, and brought so near ? 
The Earls upon each other gazed, 
And Neville's cheek grew pale with fear j 
For, with a high and valiant name 
He bore a heart of timid frame ; 
And bold if both had been, yet they 
" Against so many may not stay."* 
Back therefore will they hie to seize 
A strong Hold on the banks of Tees ; 
There wait a favorable hour. 
Until Lord Dacre with his power 
From Na worth come ; and Howard's aid 
Be with them openly displayed. 

While through the Host, from man to man, 
A rumor of this purpose ran. 
The Standard trusting to the care 
Of him who heretofore did bear 
That charge, impatient Norton sought 
The Chieftains to unfold his thought, 
And thus abruptly spake ; — " We yield 
(And can it be ?) an uufought field ! — 
How oft has strength, the strength of heaven, 
To few triumphantly been given ! 
Still do our very children boast 
Of mitred Thurston — what a Host 
He conquered !- — Saw we not the Plain 
(And flying shall behold again) 
Where faith was proved ?---'while to battle moved 
The Standard, on the Sacred Wain 
That bore it, compassed round by a bold 
Fraternity of Barons old : 

* From the old Ballad, 



68 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

And with those grey-hau-ed champions stsod, 
Under the saintly ensigns three, 
The infant Heir of Mowbray's blood- 
All confident of victory ! — ^ 
Shall Percy blush, then, for his name ? 
Must Westmoreland be asked with shame 
Whose were the numbers, where the loss, 
In that other day of Neville's Cross ? 
When the Prior of Durham with holy hand, 
Raised, as the Vision gave command. 
Saint Cuthbert's Relic — far and near 
Kenned on the point of a lofty spear ; 
While the Monks prayed in Maiden's Bower 
To God descending in his power. 
Less would not at our need be due 
To us, who war against the Untrue , 
The delegates of Heaven we rise. 
Convoked the impious to chastise : 
We, we, the sanctities of old ; 
Would re-establish and uphold : 
Be warned "—-His zeal the Chiefs confounded, 
But word was given, and the trumpet sounded ; 
Back through the melancholy Host, 
Went Norton, and resumed his post. 
Alas ! thought he, and have I borne. 
This Banner raised with joyful pride, 
This hope of all posterity. 
By those dread symbols sanctified ; 
Thus to become at once the scorn 
Of babbling winds as they go by, 
A spot of shame to the sun's bright eye, 
To the light clouds a mockery ! 
— " Even these poor eight of mine would stem- 
Half to himself, and half to them 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE, 69 

He spake — " would stem, or quell, a force 

Ten times their number, man and horse ; 

This by their own unaided might, 

Without their father in their sight, 

"Without the Cause for which they fight ; 

A Cause, which on a needful day 

Would breed us thousands brave as they." 

— So speaking, he his reverend head 

Raised towards that Imagery once more : 

But the familiar prospect shed 

Despondency unfelt before : 

A shock of intimations vain, 

Dismay, and superstitious pain, 

Fell on him, with the sudden thought 

Of her by whom the work was wrought : — 

Oh wherefore was her countenance bright 

With love divine and gentle light ? 

She would not, could not, disobey, 

But her Faith leaned another way. 

Ill tears she wept ; I saw them fall, 

I overheard her as she spake 

Sad words to that mute Animal, 

The White Doe in the hawthorn brake ; 

She steeped, but not for Jesu's sake, 

This Cross in tears : by her, and One 

Unworthier far we are undone. 

Her recreant Brother — he prevailed 

Over that tender Spirit — assailed 

Too oft, alas ! by her whose head 

In the cold grave hath long been laid : 

She first, in reason's dawn beguiled 

Her docile, unsuspecting Child : 

Far back — far back my mind must go 

To reach the well-spring of this woe 1 



70 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

While thus he brooded, music sweet 
Of border tunes was played to cheer 
The footsteps of a quick retreat ; 
But Norton lingered in the rear, 
Stung with sharp thoughts ; and ere the last 
From his distracted brain was cast, 
Before his Father, Francis stood, 
And spake in firm and earnest mood. 

" Though here I bend a suppliant knee 
In reverence, and unarmed, I bear 
In your indignant thoughts my share ; 
Am g-rieved this backward march to see 
So careless and disorderly. 
I scorn your Chiefs — men who would lead, 
And yet want courage at their need : 
Then look at them with open eyes ! 
Deserve they further sacrifice ? — 
If — when they shrink, nor dare oppose 
In open field their gathering foes 
(And fast, from this decisive day, 
Yon multitude must pass away) ; 
If now I ask a grace not claimed 
While ground was left for hope ; unblamed 
Be an endeavor that can do 
No injury to them or you. 
My Father ! I would help to find 
A place of shelter, till the rage 
Of cruel men do like the wind 
Exhaust itself and sink to rest ; 
Be Brother now to Brother joined ! 
Admit me in the equipage 
Of your misfortunes, that at least. 
Whatever fate remain behind, 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE, 71 

I may bear witness in my breast 
To your nobility of mind !" 

" Thou Enemy, my bane and blight ! 
Oh ! bold to fight the Coward's fight 
Against all good"^but why declare. 
At length, the issue of a prayer 
Which love had prompted, yielding scope 
Too free to one bright moment's hope ? 
Sufiice it that the Son, who strove 
With fruitless effort to allay 
That passion, prudently gave way ; 
Nor did he turn aside to prove 
His Brothers' wisdom or their love^ — 
But calmly from the spot withdrew ; 
His best endeavors to renew, 
Should e'er a kindlier time ensue. 



CANTO rOTJKTH. 

'T IS night: in silence looking down, 
The Moon, from cloudless ether, sees 
A Camp, and a beleaguered Town, 
And Castle like a stately crown 
On the steep rocks of winding Tees ; — 
And southward far, with moor between, 
Hill-top, and flood, and forest green. 
The bright Moon sees that valley small 
Where Rylstone's old sequestered Hall 
A venerable image yields 
Of quiet to the neighboring fields ; 
While from one pillared chimney breathes 
The smoke, and mounts m silver wreaths. 



72 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

— The courts are hushed ; — for timely sleep 

The greyhounds to their kennel creep ; 

The peacock in the broad ash tree 

Aloft is roosted for the night, 

He who in proud prosperity 

Of colors manifold and bright 

Walked round, affronting the day-light ; 

And higher still, above the bower 

Where he is perched, from yon lone Tower 

The hall-clock in the clear moonshine 

With glittering finger points at nine. 

Ah ! who could think that sadness here 
Hath any sway ? or pain, or fear ? 
A soft and lulling sound is heard 
Of streams inaudible by day ; 
The garden pool's dark surface, stirred 
By the night insects in their play, 
Breaks into dimples small and bright ; 
A thousand, thousand rings of light 
That shape themselves and disappear 
Almost as soon as seen : — and lo ! 
Not distant far, the milk-white Doe — 
The same who quietly was feeding 
On the green herb, and nothing heeding, 
When Francis, uttering to the Maid 
His last words in the yew-tree shade, 
Involved whate'er by love was brought 
Out of his heart, or crossed his thought, 
Or chance presented to his eye. 
In one sad sweep of destiny — 
The same fair Creature, who hath found 
Her way into forbidden ground ; 













THE WHITE DOB OF RYLSTONE. 


73 






Where now — within this spacious plot 








For pleasure made, a goodly spot, 








With lawns and beds of flowers, and shades 








Of trellis -work in long arcades, 








And cirque and crescent framed by wall 








Of close-clipt foliage green and tall. 
Converging walks, and fountains gay, 
And terraces in trim array — 








Benieath yon cypress spiring high. 
With pine and cedar spreading wide, 








Their darksome boughs on either side. 
In open moonlight doth she lie ; 
Happy as others of her kind. 
That, far from human neighborhood, 
Range unrestricted as the wind, 
Through park, or chase, or savage wood. 

But see the consecrated Maid 
Emerging from a cedar shade 
To open moonshine, where the Doe 
Beneath the cypress-spire is laid ; 








Like a patch of April snow — 








Upon a bed of herbage green, 
Lingering in a woody glade 
Or behind a rocky screen — 








Lonely relic ! which, if seen 
By the shepherd, is passed by 








With an inattentive eye. 

Nor more regard doth She bestow 

Upon the uncomplaining Doe 

Now couched at ease, though oft this day 








Not unperplexed nor free from pain. 








When she had tried, and tried in vain, 








Approaching in her gentle way, 








"7 















74 WO'EDSWORTH'S FOSM^.- 

To win some loolk of love, or gam 
Encouragement to sport or play ; 
Attempts at which the heart-sick MaiJ 
Eejectedy or with slight repaid. 

Yet Emily is soothed ; — 'the breeze- 
Came fraught with kindly sympathies. 
As she approached yon rustic Shed 
Hung with late-flowering woodbine, spreac 
Along the walls and overhead, 
The fragrance of the breathing flowers 
Revived a memory of those hours- 
When here, in this remote alcove 
f While from the pendent woodbine came 
Like odors, sweet as if the same), 
A fondly-anxious Mother strove 
To teaeh her salutary fears 
And mysteries above her years. 
Yes, she is soothed : an Image faint. 
And yet not faint-^a presence bright 
Heturns to her — -that blessed Saint 
Who with mild looks and language mild 
Instructed here her darling Child, 
While yet a prattler on the knee. 
To worship in simplicity 
The invisible God, and take for guide 
The faith reformed and purified. 

'T is flown— the Vision, and the sense 
Of that beguiling influence ; 
" But oh I thou Angel from above, 
Mute Spirit of maternal love. 
That stood'st before nay eyes, more ckair 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYL STONE. 75 

Than ghosts are fabled to appear 
Sent upon embassies of fear ; 
As thou thy presence hast to me 
Vouchsafed, in radiant ministry 
Descend on Francis ; nor forbear 
To greet him with a voice, and say ; — 
■' If hope be a rejected stay, 
©o thou, my Christian Son, beware 
■•'Of that most lamentable snare, 
The self-reliance of despair!'" 

Then from within the embowered retreat 
Where she had found a grateful seat 
■Perturbed she issues. She will go ! 
Herself will follow to the war, 
And clasp her Father's knees ; — ah, no3 
'She meets the insuperable bar. 
The injunction by her Brother laid ; 
His parting charge — but ill obeyed — 
That interdicted all debate, 
AH prayer for this cause or for that.; 
All efforts that would turn aside 
"^The headstrong current of their fate,: 
Ser duty is to stand and wait j 
In resignation to abide 
The shock, and finally secure 
■O'er pain and grief a triumph pure. 
— She feels it, and her pangs are checked. 
But now, as silently she paced 
The turf, and thought by thought was chase^ 
'Came oae who, with sedate respect. 
Approached, and, greeting her, thus spake; 
■"An old man's privilege I, take : 



'L. 



7e WORDSWORTH'S rOEMS. 

Dark is the time — a woeful day ! 

Dear daughter of affliction, say 

How can I serve you? point the way." 

" Rights have you, and may well be bold: 
You with my Father have grown old 
In friendship — strive — for his sake go — 
Turn from us all the coming woe : 
This would I beg ; but on my mind 
A passive stillness is enjoined. 
On you, if room for mortal aid 
Be left, is no restriction laid ; 
You not forbidden to recline 
With hope upon the Will divine." 

" Hope," said the old man, " must abide 
With all of us, whate'er betide. 
In Craven's Wilds is many a den, 
To shelter persecuted men : 
Far under ground is many a cave, 
Where they might lie as in the grave. 
Until this storm hath ceased to rave : 
Or let them cross the River Tweed, 
And be at once from peril freed !" 

" Ah tempt me not !" she faintly sighed ; 
" I will not counsel nor exhort, 
With my condition satisfied ; 
But you, at least, may make report 
Of what befals ; — be this your task — 
This may be done ; — 't is all I ask !" 

She spake — and fi-om the Lady's sight 
The Sire, unconscious of his age. 
Departed promptly as a Page 



"THE WHTf B DOE iHF EYLSTONE. -^ 

Bound on some errand of deliglit. 
— The noble Francis— ^wise as brave, 
Thoiig-ht he, may want not skill to save. 
With hopes in tenderness concealed, 
■Unarmed he followed to the field ; 
-Him will I seek : the insurgent Powers 
'Are now besieging Barnard's Towers,^ 
~'* Grant that the Moon which shines this niglit 
May guide them in a -prudent flight!" 

But quick tlie turns of fchance and ctaiig©, 
And knowledge has a narrow range-; 
Whence idle fears, and needless pain, 
And wishes blind, and efforts vain,-^ 
The Moon may shine, but cannot be 
Their guide in flight-— already sh€ 
Hath witnessed their captivity. 
She saw the desperate assault 
Upon that hostile castle made ;-^ 
But dark and dismal is the vault 
Where Norton and bis sons are laid! 
Disastrous issue !--^he had said 
'" This night yon faithless Towers must yields 
Or we for ever quit the field. 
— Neville is utterly dismayed, 
For promise fails of Howard's aid '? 
And Dacre to our call replies 
That lie is unprepared to rise. 
My heart is sick ;— this weary pause 
Must needs be fata;l to our cause. 
The breach is open— on the wall 
This night, the Banner shall be planted !'* 
'T was done : his Sons were with him — all ; 
They belt him round with hearts undaunted 



78 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS^ 

And others follow ; Sire and Son 
Leap down into the court ; — " 'T is won"— 
They shout aloud — but Heaven decreed 
That with their joyful shout should close 
The triumph of a desperate deed 
Which struck with terror friends and foes I 
The friend shrinks back — the foe recoils 
From Norton and his filial band ; 
But they, now caught within the toils> 
Against a thousand cannot stand ; — 
The foe from numbers courage drew. 
And overpowered that gallant few. 
" A rescue for the Standard !" cried 
The Father from within the walls ; 
But, see, the sacred Standard falls ! — 
Confusion through the Camp spread wide : 
Some fled : and some their fears detained i 
But ere the Moon had sunk to rest 
In her pale chambers of the west, 
Of that rash levy naught remained. 



CANTO FIFTH. 

High on a point of rugged ground 
Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell 
Above the loftiest ridge or mound 
Where foresters or shepherds dwel^ 
An edifice of warlike frame 
Stands single, — Norton Tower its name- 
It fronts all quarters, and looks round 
O'er path and road, and plain and dell, 
Dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream 
Upon a prospect without bound. 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONB 79 

The summit of this bold ascent — - 
Though bleak and bare, and seldom free, 
As Pendle-hill or Pennygent 
From wind, or frost, or vapors wet- 
Had often heard the sound of glee 
When there the youthful Nortons met, 
To practise games and archery : 
How proud and happy they ! the crowd 
Of lookers-on how pleased and proud ! 
And from the scorching noon-tide sun, 
From showers, or when the prize was won, 
They to the Tower withdrew, and there 
Would mirth run round, with generous fare ; 
And the stern old Lord of Rylstone-hall, 
Was happiest, proudest of them all. 

But now, his Child, with anguish pale, 
Upon the height walks to and fro ; 
'T is well that she hath heard the tale, 
Received the bitterness of woe ; 
For she had hoped, had hoped and feared, 
Such rights did feeble nature claim ; 
And oft her steps had hither steered. 
Though not unconscious of self-blame ; 
For she her brother's charge revered. 
His farewell words ; and by the same. 
Yea by her brother's very name, 
Had, in her solitude, been cheered. 

Beside the lonely watch-tower stood 
That grey-haired man of gentle blood. 
Who with her Father had grown old 
In friendship ; rival hunters they 
And fellow- warriors in their day ; 



80 WORDSWOETH'S POEMS. 

lo Rylstone he the tidings brought ; 
Then on this height the maid he sought» 
And, gently as he could, had told 
The end of that dire Tragedy, 
Which it had been his lot to see. 

To him the lady turned ; " You said 
That Francis lives, he is not dead ?" 

" Your noble brother hath been spared » 
To take his Ufe they have not dared ; 
On him and on his high endeavor 
The light of praise shall shine for ever ! 
Nor did he (such Heaven's will) in vain 
His solitary course maintain ; 
Not vainly struggled in the might 
Of duty, seeing with clear sight ; 
He was their comfort to the last, 
Their joy till every pang was past. 

I witnessed when to York they came— 
What, Lady, if their feet were tied ; 
They might deserve a good Man's blame ; 
But marks of infamy and shame-— 
These were their triumph, these their pride 
Nor wanted 'mid the pressing crowd 
Deep feeling, that found utterance loud, 
*Lo, Francis comes,' there were who cried, 
' A Prisoner once, but now set free ! 
'T is well, for he the worst defied 
Through force of natural piety ; 
He rose not in this quarrel, he, 
For concord's sake and England's goodj 
Suit to his Brothers often made 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONB. 81 

With tears, and of his Father prayed — 
And when he had in vain withstood 
Their purpose — then did he divide, 
He parted from them ; but at their side 
Now walks in unanimity. 
Then peace to cruelty and scorn. 
While to the prison they are borne. 
Peace, peace to all indignity !' 

And so in Prison were they laid — 
Oh hear me, hear me, gentle Maid, 
For I am come with power to bless. 
By scattering gleams, through your distress, 
Of a redeeming happiness. 
Me did a reverent pity move 
And privilege of ancient love ; 
And, in your service, making bold, 
Entrance I gained to that strong-hold. 

Your Father gave me cordial greeting ; 
But to his purposes, that burned 
Within him, instantly returned : 
He was commanding and entreating. 
And said, * We need not stop, my son ! 
Thoughts press, and time is hurrying on '— 
And so to Francis he renewed 
His words, more calmly thus pursued. 

' Might this our enterprise have sped, 
Change wide and deep the Land had seen, 
A renovation from the dead, 
A spring-tide of immortal green : 
The darksome altars would have blazed 
Like stars when clouds are rolled away ; 



! WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Salvation to all eyes that gazed. 
Once more the Rood had been upraised 
To spread its arms and stand for aye. 
Then, then — had I survived to see 
New life in Bolton Priory; 
The voice restored, the eye of Truth 
Re-opened that inspired mj'- youth ; 
To see her in her pomp arrayed — 
This Banner (for such vow I made) 
Should on the consecrated breast 
Of that same Temple have found rest : 
I would myself have hung it high, 
Fit offering of glad victory ! 

A shadow of such thought remains 
To cheer this sad and pensive time • 
A solemn fancy yet sustains 
One feeble Being — bids me climb 
Even to the last — one effort more 
To attest my Faith, if not restore. 

Hear then,' said he, ' while I impart, 
My Son, the last wish of my heart. 
The Banner strive thou to regain ; 
And, if the endeavor prove not vain. 
Bear it — to whom if not to thee 
Shall I this lonely thought consign ? — 
Bear it to Bolton Priory, 
And lay it on Saint Mary's shrine : 
To wither in the sun and breeze 
'Mid those decaying sanctities. 
There let at least the gift be laid, 
The testimony there displayed ; 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONB. 83 

Bold proof that witli no selfish aim. 
But for lost Faith and Christ's dear name 
I helmeted a brow though white, 
And took a place in all men's sight ; 
Yea offered up this noble Brood, 
This fair unrivalled Brotherhood, 
And turned away from thee, my Son ! 
And left — but be the rest unsaid, 
The name untouched, the tear unshed ; — ■ 
My wish is known, and I have done : 
Now promise, grant this one request. 
This dying prayer, and be thou blest !' 

Then Francis answered — * Trust thy Son, 
For, with God's will, it shall be done !' — • 

The pledge obtained, the solemn word 
Thus scarcely given, a noise was heard, 
And Officers appeared in state 
To lead the prisoners to their fate. 
They rose, oh ! wherefore should I fear 
To tell, or. Lady, you to hear ? 
They rose — embraces none were given — 
They stood like trees when earth and heaven 
Are calm : they knew each other's worth, 
And reverently the Band went forth. 
They met, when they had reached the door, 
One with profane and harsh intent 
Placed there — that he might go before, 
And, with that rueful Banner borne 
Aloft in sign of taunting scorn. 
Conduct them to their punishment : 
So cruel Sussex, unrestrained 
By human feeling, had ordained. 



84 WOKDSWOETH'S POEMS. 

The unhappy Banner Francis saw, 
And, with a look of calm command 
Inspiring universal awe, 
He took it from the soldier's hand ; 
And all the people that stood round 
Confirmed the deed in peace profound. 
- — High transport did the Father shed 
Upon his Son — and they were led, 
Led on, and yielded up their breath ; 
Together died, a happy death ! — 
But Francis, soon as he had braved 
That insult, and the Banner saved, 
Athwart the unresisting tide 
Of the spectators occupied 
In admiration or dismay, 
Bore instantly his charge away." 

These things, which thus had in the sight 
And hearing passed of Him who stood 
With Emily, on the Watch-tower height, 
In Rylstone's woeful neighborhood, 
He told ; and oftentimes with voice 
Of power to comfort or rejoice ; 
For deepest sorrows that aspire, 
Go high, no transport ever higher. 
" Yes — God is rich in mercy," said 
The old Man to the silent Maid, 
" Yet, Lady ! shines through this black night, 
One star of aspect heavenly bright ; 
Your brother lives — he lives — is come 
Perhaps already to his home ; 
Then let us leave this dreary place.'' 
She yielded, and with gentle pace. 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 85 



Though without one uplifted look, 
To Rylstone-hall her way she took. 



CANTO SIXTH. 

Why comes not Francis ? — From the doleful City 

He fied, — and, in his flight, could hear 

The death-sounds of the Minster-bell : 

That sullen stroke pronounced farewell 

To Marmaduke, cut off from pity ! 

To Ambrose that ! and then a knell 

For him, the sweet half-opened Flower ! 

For all — all dying in one hour ! 

— Why comes not Francis ? Thoughts of love 

Should bear him to his Sister dear 

With the fleet motion of a dove ; 

Yea, like a heavenly messenger 

Of speediest wing, should he appear. 

Why comes he not ? — for westward fast 

Along the plain of York he past ; 

Reckless of what impels or leads. 

Unchecked he hurries on ; — nor heeds 

The sorrow, through the Villages, 

Spread by triumphant cruelties 

Of vengeful military force. 

And punishment without remorse. 

He marked not, heard not, as he fled ; 

All but the suff"ering heart was dead 

For him abandoned to blank awe, 

To vacancy, and horror strong ; 

And the first object which he saw. 

With conscious sight, as he swept along — 

It was the Banner in his hand ! 

He felt — and made a sudden stand. 



6- WORDSWORTH'S FOBHS. 

He looked about like one betrayed : 
What hath be done? what promise made? 
Oh weak> weak moment ! to what end^ 
€an sueh a vain oblation tend. 
And he the Bearer ?— Can he go 
Carrying this instrument of woe,^ 
And find, find anywhere, a right 
To excuse him in his Country's sight ? 
No ; wrll not all men deem the change 
A downward course, perverse and strange t 
Here is it ;■-— but how ? when ? must she^- 
The unoffending Emily ,- 
Again this piteous object see ?^ 

Such conflict long did' he maiiitai% 
Nor liberty nor rest could gain : 
His own life into danger brought 
By this sad burden— even that thoughlv 
Exciting self-suspicion strong 
Swayed the brave man to his wrong. 
And how — -unless it were the sense* 
Of all-disposing Providence, 
Its will unquestionably shown — 
How has the Banner clung so fast 
To a palsied and unconscious hand ; 
Clung to the hand to which it passed 
Without impediment ? And why 
But that Heaven's purpose might be know©,, 
Doth now no hindrance meet his eye, 
No intervention, to- withstand 
Fulfilment of a Father's prayer 
Breathed to a Son forgiven, and blest 
When all resentments were at rest, 
And life in dea,th laid the heart bare ? — 



"THE W.HIT'B 'DO'S ^O-F RYiLST© NE.. S? 

Then, like a spectre sweeping by, 

?S,uslied through his mind the prophecy 

■Of utter deselation made 

To Emily, in the j'-ew-tree shade : 

.He sighed, submitting will and power 

To the stern embrace of that grasping hour. 

-" No choice is left, the deed is mine — 

Dead, are they, dead ! — and 1 will go, 

And, for their sakes, come weal or woe. 

Will lay the Eelic on the shrine." 

So forward with a steady will 
He went, and traversed plain and hill,; 
And up the vale of Wharf his way 
Pursued ; and, at the dawn of day, 
Attained a summit whence his eyes 
Could see the Tower of Bolton rise. 
There Francis for a moment's space 
Made halt — but hark ! a noise behinil 
Of horsemen at an eager -pace ! 
-He heard, and witt misgiving mind. 
— 'T is Sir George Bewes who leads the Ban^-j: 
'They come, by cruel Sussex sent ; 
Who, when the Nortons from the hand 
Of death had drunk their punishment, 
■Bethought him, angry and ashamed, 
■How Francis, with the Banner claimed 
As his own charge, had disappeared, 
By all the standers-by revered. 
His whole bold carriage. (which had quelel 
Thus far the Opposer, and repelled 
All censure, enterprise so bright 
TEhat . even bad men had vainly strivjen 











88 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 






Against that overcoming light) 






Was then reviewed, and prompt word given. 






That to what place soever fled 






He should be seized, ahve or dead. 






The troop of horse have gained the height 






Where Francis stood in open sight. 






They hem hioi round—" Behold the proof," 






They cried, " the Ensign in his hand ! 






He did not arm, he walked aloof ! 






For why ? — to save his Father's land ; — 






Worst Traitor of them all is he, 






A Traitor dark and cowardly !" 






" I am no Traitor," Francis said, 
" Though this unhappy freight I bear; 
And must not part with. But beware ; — 
Err not, by hasty zeal misled,. 
Nor do a suff"ering Spirit wrong, 
Whose self-reproaches are too strong 1" 
At this he from the beaten road 
Eetreated towards a brake of thorn, 
That like a place of vantage showed ; 






And there stood bravely, though forlorn. 
In self-defence with warlike brow 
He stood, — nor weaponless was now; 
He from a Soldier's hand had snatched 
A spear, — and, so protected, watched 
The Assailants, turning round and round ; 
But from behind with treacherous wound 
A Spearman brought him to the ground. 
The guardian lance, as Francis fell. 
Dropped from him ; but his other hand 






The Banner clenched ; till, from out the Band, 













'fl 
i 

i. 

f 

I 


Tfl[S 'WHITE B0l '0t feYLS'tONE. «§ 


t 


'■■One, the mest ^agier for the prfe©, \ 




IRushed in ; and^— while, grief to tell'! : \ 


'j 


■K ghmtiaering sense still left, with eyes i i 


l 


Unclosed the noble Francis lay-^-^ j ,; 


1 ■ 


■Seized it, as kunters seize their prey; : '; 


1 ' 


■But not before the warm life-blood ; j! 


\ . 


©ad tinged more deeply, as it fiowed, i \ 


i ■ 


The wouhds the broidered Banner showed, ] 


'i 
i 


■Thy fatal work, © Maiden, innocent as goo4. ;! 


f 


Pretidiy the Horsemen bore away \ \ 


1 


'The Standard ; and where Francis lay I \ 


I ■ 


There was he left alone, linwept, !: 1 


\ : 


And for two days unnoticed slept, il 


i 


For at that time bewildering fear ' k 


I 


Possessed the country, far and near'-; :? 


t 


But, -OH the third day, passing by . ,; 


{ ■■■ 


*One of the Norton Tenantry ; '\ 


■■ 


Espied the uncovered Corse ; the Mai 


i 


•Shrunk as he recognised the face, 


i 


-And to the nearest homesteads ran ; 




And called the people to the place. 


1 


«-^How desolate is Eylstone-hall I ; 




This was the instant thought of all-; ;' 


i ; 


And if the lonely Lady there ; 


\ 


•Should be ; to her they cannot beat' ; 


i 


This weight of anguish and despair. 


I 


So, when upon sad tboiights had pre^t 




Thoughts sadder still, they deemed it be^ ; 


\ ■■ 


That, if the priest should yield assent ■ 


; ■' 


And no one hinder their intent. 


; 


Then, they, for Christian pity's sake, 




'In holy ground a grave would make:; 


i 


^8* \ 

i 
' ■ 







90 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.- 

And straightway buried he should be 
In the Ohurch-yard of the Priory, 

Apart, some httle space, was made 
The grave where Francis must be laid. 
In no confusion or neglect 
This did they, — but in pure respect 
That he was born of gentle blood ; 
And that there was no neighborhood 
Of kindred for him in that ground : 
So to the Church-yard they are bound. 
Bearing the body on a bier ; 
And psalms they sing — a holy sound 
That hill and vale with sadness hear. 

But Emily hath raised her head. 
And is again disquieted ; 
She must behold ! so many gone. 
Where is the solitary One ? 
And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped she,— 
To seek her Brother forth she went, 
And tremblingly her course she bent 
Toward Bolton's ruined Priory. 
She comes, and in the vale hath heard 
The funeral dirge ; she sees the knot 
Of people, sees them in one spot — 
And darting like a wounded bird 
She reached the grave, and with her breast 
Upon the ground received the rest, — 
The consummation, the whole ruth 
And sorrow of this final truth I 



r 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. ^1 



CANTO SEVENTH^ 

" Powers there are 
That touch each other to the quick — in modes 
Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive, 
No soul to dream of." 

^aotJ Spirit, whose angelic hand 
Was to the harp a strong comnland, 
Called the submissive strings to wake 
in glory for this Maiden's sake, 
Say, Spirit ! whither hath she jfied 
To hide her poor afflicted head ? 
What mighty forest in its gloom 
Enfolds her ? — is a rifted tomb 
Within the wilderness her seat ? 
Some island which the wild waves beat—* 
Is that the Sufferer's last retreat ? 
Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds 
Its perilous front in mists and clouds ? 
High-climbing rock, low Sunless dale, 
Sea, desert, what do these avail ? 
Oh take her anguish and her fears 
Into a deep recess of years! 

'Tis done ;- — despoil and desolation 
O'er Rylstone's fair domain have blown; 
Pools, terraces, and walks are sown 
With weeds ; the bowers are overthrown^ 
Or have given way to slow mutation. 
While, in their ancient habitation 
The Norton name hath been unknown. 
The lordly Mansion of its pride 
Is stripped ; the ravage hath spread wide 
Through park and field, a perishing 
That mocks the gladness of the Spring ! 



ma 


02 W0R1>8W0RTH*S POEMS. 


seei 




And J with this silent gloom agreeing, 






Appears a joyless human Being, 






Of aspect such as if the waste 






Were under her dominion placed. 






Upon a primrose bank, her throne 






Of quietness, she sits alone ; 






Among the ruins of a wood. 






Erewhile a covert bright and green, 






And where full many a brave tree stood, 






That used to spread its boughs, and ring 






With the sweet birds' carolling. 






Behold her, like a virgin Queen, 






Neglecting in imperial state 






These outward images of fate. 






And carrying inward a serene 






And perfect sway, through many a thought 






Of chance and change, that hath been brought 






To the subjection of a holy, 

Though stern and rigorous melancholy ! 

The like authority, with grace 

Of awfulness, is in her face,-^ 

There hath she fixed it ; yet it seems 

To o'ershadow by no native right 

That face, which cannot lose the gleams, 

Lose utterly the tender gleams. 

Of gentleness and meek delight, 

And loving-kindness ever bright : 

Such is her sovereign mien :-— her dress 

(A vest with woollen cincture tied, 

A hood of mountain-wool undyed) 

Is homely,— fashioned to express 

A wandering Pilgrim's humbleness. 






And she hath wandered, long and far, 




I 


Beneath the light of sun and star ; 





THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 93 

Hath roamed in trouble and in grief. 
Driven forward like a withered leaf, 
Yea like a ship at random blown 
To distant places and unknown. 
But now she dares to seek a haven 
Among her native wilds of Craven ; 
Hath seen again her Father's roof. 
And put her fortitude to proof ; 
The mighty sorrow hath been borne. 
And she is thoroughly forlorn : 
Her soul doth in itself stand fast. 
Sustained by memory of the past 
And strength of Reason ; held above 
The infirmities of mortal love ; 
Undaunted, lofty, calm, and stable, 
And awfully impenetrable. 

And so — beneath a mouldered tree, 
A self-surviving leafless oak 
By unregarded age from stroke 
Of ravage saved — sate Emily. 
There did she rest, with head reclined. 
Herself most like a stately flower 
(Such have I seen) whom chance of birth 
Hath separated from its kind, 
To live and die in a shady bower, 
Single on the gladsome earth. 

When, with a noise like distant thunder, 
A troop of deer came sweeping by ; 
And, suddenly, behold a wonder! 
For One, among those rushing deer, 
A single One, in mid career 
Hath stopped, and fixed her large full eye 
Upon the Lady Emily ; 



94 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

A doe most beautiful, clear-white, 
A radiant creature, silver-bright ! 

Thus checked, a little while it stayed ; 
A little thoughtful pause it made ; 
And then advanced with stealth-like pace. 
Drew softly near her, and more near — 
Looked round — but saw no cause for fear ; 
So to her feet the Creature came. 
And laid its head upon her knee. 
And looked into the Lady's face, 
A look of pure benignity, 
And fond unclouded memory. 
It is, thought Emily, the same. 
The very Doe of other years ! — 
The pleading look the Lady viewed, 
And, by her gushing thoughts subdued, 
She melted into tears. — 
A flood of tears, that flowed apace, 
Upon the happy Creature's face. 

Oh, moment ever blest ! Pair 
Beloved of Heaven, Heaven's chosen care. 
This was for you a precious greeting ; 
And may it prove a fruitful meeting ! 
Joined are they, and the sylvan Doe 
Can she depart ? can she forego 
The Lady, once her playful peer. 
And now her sainted Mistress dear ? 
And will not Emily receive 
This lovely chronicler of things 
Long past, delights and sorrowings ? 
Lone Sufferer ! will not she believe 
The promise in that speaking face ; 



THE WHITii! DOE OF RYL8T0NE. m 

And welcome, as a gift of grace, 

The saddest thou ht the Creature brings ? 

That day, the first of a re-union 
Which was to teem with high communion, 
That day of balmy April weather, 
They tarried in the wood together. 
And when, ere fall of evening dew, 
She from her sylvan haunt withdrew, 
The White Doe tracked with faithful pace 
The Lady to her dwelling-place ; 
That nook where, on paternal ground, 
A habitation she had found, 
The Master of whose humble board 
Once owned her Father for his Lord ; 
A hut, by tufted trees defended. 
Where Rylstone brook with Wharf is blended. 

When Emily by morning light 
Went forth, the Doe stood there in sight. 
She shrunk : — with one frail shock of pain 
Received and followed by a prayer. 
She saw the Creature once again; 
Shun will she not, she feels, will bear ; — 
But, wheresoever she looked round. 
All now was trouble-haunted ground ; 
And therefore now she deems it good 
Once more this restless neighborhood 
To leave. — Unwooed, yet unforbidden, 
The White Doe followed up the vale, 
Up to another cottage, hidden 
In the deep fork of Amerdale ; 
And there may Emily restore 
Herself, in spots unseen before. 



06 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

— Why tell of mossy rock, or tree, 
By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side. 
Haunts of a strengthening amity 
That calmed her, cheered, and fortified ? 
For she hath ventured now to read 
Of time, and place, and thought, and deed- 
Endless history that lies 
In her silent Follower's eyes ; 
Who with a power like human reason 
Discerns the favorable season, 
Skilled to approach or to retire. 
From looks conceiving her desire ; 
From look, deportment, voice, or mien. 
That vary to the heart within. 
If she too passionately wreathed 
Her arms, or over-deeply breathed, 
Walked quick, or slowly, every mood 
In its degree was understood ; 
Then well may their accord be true, 
And kindhest intercourse ensue. 
— Oh ! surely 't was a gentle rousing 
When she by sudden glimpse espied 
The White Doe on the mountain browsing. 
Or in the meadow wandered wide ! 
How pleased, when down the straggler sank 
Beside her, on some sunny bank ! 
How soothed, when in thick bower enclosed, 
They, like a nested pair, reposed ! 
Fair Vision ! when it crossed the Maid 
Within some rocky cavern laid, 
The dark cave's portal gliding by, 
White as whitest cloud on high 
Floating through the azure sky. 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLStONE. ^ 

■ — What now is left for pain or fear ? 
Tliat Presence, dearer and naore dear. 
While th«y, side by side, were straying^ 
And the shepherd's pipe was playing, 
Did now a very gladness yield 
At morning to the dewy field, 
And with a deeper peace endued 
The hour of moonlight solitude. 

With her Companion, in such frame 
Of mind, to Rylstone back she came ; 
And, ranging through the wasted groves. 
Received the memory of old loves, 
Undisturbed and undistrest, 
Into a soul which now was blest 
With a soft spring^day of holy, 
Mild, and grateful melancholy : 
Not sunless gloom or unenlightened, 
But by tender fancies brightened. 

When the bells of Rylstone played 
Their Sabbath music—" ®feti us agirc !" 
That was the sound they seemed to speak ; 
Inscriptive legend which I ween 
May on those holy bells be seen. 
That legend and her Grandsire's name ; 
And oftentimes the Lady meek 
Had in her childhood read the same ; 
Words which she slighted at that day ; 
But now, wheil such sad change was wrought. 
And of that lonely name she thought. 
The bells of Rylstone seemed to say. 
While she sate listening in the shade. 
With vocal music, " &oli «s as&ej" 
9 



m WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

And all the hills were glad to bear 
Their part in this effectual prayer. 

Nor lacked slie Reason's firmest power ;■ 
But with the White Doe at her side 
Up would she climb to Norton Tower, 
And thence look round her far and wide, 
Her fate there measuring; — all' is stilled, — • 
The weak One hath subdued her heart ; 
Behold the prophecy fulfilled, 
Fulfilled, and she sustains her part I 
But liere her Brother's words have failed ;; 
Here hath a milder doom prevailed ; 
That she, of him and all bereft. 
Hath yet this faithful Partner left ; 
This one Associate that disproves 
His words, remains for her, and loves. 
If tears are shed, they do not fall 
For loss of him — for one, or all ; 
Yet, sometimes, sometimes doth she weep 
Moved gently in her soul's soft sleep; 
A few tears down her cheek descend 
For this her last and living Friend. 

Bless, tender Hearts, their mutual lot^ 

And bless for both this savage spot ; 

Which Emily doth sacred hold 

For reasons dear and manifold — 

Here hath she, here before her sight,. 

Close to the summit of this height. 

The grassy rock-encircled Pound 

In which the Creature first was found,, 

So beautiful the timid Thrall 

(A spotless Youngling white as foam} 



^ 




*.; 




I 


THE 'WHITE DOB OF RYLSTONE. m 


i 


■S-er youngest Brother brought it home-" 




The youngest, then a lusty boy, 


r ; 


Bore it, or led, to Rylstone-hall 


^ ■ 


With heart brimful of pride and joy1 


3 . 


But most to Bolton's sacred Pile, 




■'On favoring nights, she loved to go; 




There ranged through cloister, court, and aisle. 




Attended by the soft-paced Doe ; 




-Eor feared she in the still moonshine 


; 


To look upon Saint Mary's shrine ; ' 




JSTor on the .lonely turf that showed 


? '^ 


Where Francis slept in his last abode. 




For that she came ; there oft she sate 


\; 


Forlorn, but not disconsolate: 




And, when she from the abyss returned 




Of thought, she neither shrunk nor mourned:: 




Was happy that she lived to greet 




Her mute Companion as it lay 


( ; 


In love and pity at her feet ; 




How happy < in its turn to meet 


I 


The recognition ! the mild glance 




Beamed from that gracious countenance,; 


c ■ 


Communication, like the ray 




Of a new morning, to the nature 




And prospects of the inferior Creature! ' 




A mortal Song we sing, by dower { 


V 


Encouraged of celestial power; ' 




.Power which the viewless Spirit shed 




By whom we were first visited ; 




Whose voice we heard, whose hand and mngs 


-■ 


Swept like a. breeze the conscious strings. 


,; 


When, left in solitude, erewhile 


V 

s; ■ 


We stood before this ruined Pile, 


£. . J 







100 WORDSWO'ETH'S POEM&. 




And, quitting unsubstantial dreams. 




Sang in this Presence kindred tliemes ; 




Distress and desolation spread 




Through human hearts, and pleasure dead,— 




Dead — but to live again on earth. 




A second and yet nobler birth ; 




Dire overthrow, and yet how high 




The re-ascent in sanctity ! 




From fair to fairer ; day by day 




A moi'e divine and loftier way ! 




Even such this blessed Pilgrim trod^ 




: By sorrow lifted towards her God j 




i ■ Uplifted to the purest sky 




Of undisturbed mortality. 




Her own thoughts loved she ; and could bend 




A dear look to her lowly friend ; 




1 , There stopped ; her thirst was satisfied 




With what this innocent spring supplied i 




Her sanction inwardly she bore. 




And stood apart from human cares : 




But to the world returned no more,. 




Although with no unwilling mind 




Help did she give at need, and joined 




The Wharfdale peasants in their prayers. 




At length, thus faintly, faintly tied, 




; To earth, she was set free, and died. 




: Thy soul, exalted Emily, 




; Maid of the blasted family, 




Rose to the God from whom it came, 




i — In Rylstone Church her mortal frame 




Was buried by her Mother's side. 




■ Most glorious sunset ! and a ray 




1 Survives — the twilight of this day — 


' 




— 







THE WHItfi DOE OF RYLSTONE. IM 


■ 


In that fair Creature whom -the fields 




Support, and whom the forest shields ; 




Who, having filled a holy place, 




Partakes, in her degreie. Heaven's grace •; 




And bears a memory and a mind 




Raised far above the law of kind.; ! 




Haunting the spots with lonely che^r ;; 




"Which her dear mistress once held dear"; 




Loves most what Emily I'eveS most — , 




The enclosure of this church-yard ground-; ; 




■ Here wanders like a gliding ghost, 




And every Sabbath Tiere is found ; 




Comes with the people when the bells 




Are heard among the moorland dells, . 




Finds entrance through yon arch, wliere waf 




Lies open on the Sabbath-day ; 




Here walks amid "the mouraful waste 




Of pVOStrate altars, shrines defaced, 




And floors encumbered with rich shoT^r 




Of fret-work iniagery laid low ; 




'paces softly, or makes hailt, 




By fractured cell, or tomb, or vault; 




By plate of monumental brass 




Dim-gleaming among weeds a:nd gra-ss, 


, 


And sculptured Forms of warriors braved 


i 


But chiefly by that single grave. 


] 


That one sequestered hillock green, 


\ 


The pensive visitant is seen. 


■ 


There doth the gentle "Creature lie 


\ 


With those adversities unmoved-; 


. 


Calm spectacle, by earth and sky 


I 


In their iDenignity approved ! 


\ 


And aye, methinks, this hoary Pile, 




Subdued by outrage and decay, 
9* 





102 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Loots down upon her with a smile, 
A gracious smile, that seems to say— 
" Thou, thou art not a Child of Time,- 
But Daughter of the Eternal Prime."^ 



sonnet: 



QCOR'N not the Sonnet ; Critic, you hate frownecJr 

Mindless of its just honors ; with this key 
Shakspeare unlocked his heart ; the melody 
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound °, 
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 
With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief ; 
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 
His visionary brow ; a glow-worm lamp, 
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land 
To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
The Thing became a trumpet ; whence he blew" 
Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! 



WE ARE SEVEN. 



A 



SIMPLE Child, 

That lightly draws its breath, 
And feels its life in every limb, 
What should it know of death ? 



atift 


WE ARE SEVEN. 103 






1 met a little cottage Girl : 
She was eight years old, she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a ourl 
That clustered roimd her head. 




1 


She had a rustic, woodland aifj, 
And she was wildly clad : 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; 
—Her beauty made me glad. 






" Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 
" How many may you be ?" 
" How many ? Seven in all," she said, 
And wondering looked at me. 






f* And where are they ? I pray you tell.** 
She answered, " Seven are we ; 
And two of us at Conway dwells 
And two are gone to sea. 






Two of us in the cburcb-yard lie, 
My sister and my brother ; 
And, in the church-yard cottage, I 
Dwell near them with my mother.*^' 






" You say that two at Conway dwell. 
And two are gone to sea, 
Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell, 
Sweet Maid, how this may be." 






Then did the little Maid reply, 
" Seven boys and girls are we ; 
Two of us in the church-yard 116, 
Beneath the churcb-yard tree." 











104 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

" You run about, my little Maid, 
Your limbs they are alive ; 
If two are in the church -yard laidj 
Then ye are only five." 

" Their graves are green, they may be seen," 

The little Maid replied, 

*' Twelve steps or more from my mother's 

door, 
And they are side by side. 

My stockings there I often knit^ 
My kerchief there I hem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit) 
And sing a song to them. 

And often after sun-set, Sir, 
When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer, 
And eat my supper there. 

The first that died was sister Jane j 
In bed she moaning lay, 
Till God released her of her pain ; 
And then she went away. 

So in the church-yard she was laid : 
And, when the grass was dry. 
Together round her grave we played. 
My brother John and I. 

And when the ground was white with snow. 

And I could run and slide. 

My brother John was forced to go. 

And he lies by her side." 



LUCY. 106 

" How many are you, then," said I, 
" If they two are in heaven?" 
Quick was the httle Maid's reply, 
" Master ! we are seven." 

" But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 
Their spirits are in heaven !" 
'T was throwing words away : for still 
The little Maid would have her will 
And said, " Nay, we are seven !" 

1798. 



LUCY. 



CHE dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A Maid whom there were none to praises 
Ani very few to love. 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
— Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She Hved unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and oh, 

The difference to me ! 

1799. 



106 WORDSWORTH'S FOE MS. 

MICHAEL. 

A PASTORAL POEM. 

TF from the public way you turn your steps 

Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
You will suppose that with an upright path 
Your feet must struggle ; in such bold ascent 
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. 
But, courage ! for around that boisterous brook 
The mountains have all opened out themselves, 
And made a hidden valley of their own. 
No habitation can be seen ; but they 
Who journey thither find themselves alone 
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites 
That overhead are sailing in the sky. 
It is in truth an utter solitude ; 
Kor should I have made mention of this Dell 
But for one object which you might pass by. 
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones ! 
And to that simple object appertains 
A story — unenriched with strange events. 
Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 
Or for the summer shade. It was the first 
Of those domestic tales that spake to me 
Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men 
Whom I already loved ; — not verily 
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 
Where was their occupation and abode. 
And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy, 
Careless of books, yet having felt the power 
Of Nature, by the gentle agency 
Of natural objects, led me on to feel 
For passions that were not my own, and think 



MICHAEL, 107 

(At random and imperfectly indeed) 
On man, the heart of man, and human \i(e. 
Therefore, although it be a history 
Homely and rude, I will relate the same 
For the delight of a few natural hearts ; 
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake 
Of youthful Poets, who among these hills 
Will be my second self when I am gone. 

Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Yale 
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name ; 
An old man, stout of heart and strong of limb. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen. 
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs 
And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt 
And watchful more than ordinary men. 
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, 
Of blasts of every tone ; and, oftentimes. 
When others heeded not, He heard the South 
Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 
Bethought him, and he to himself would say, 
" The winds are now devising work for me !" 
And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives 
The traveller to a shelter, summoned him 
Up to the mountains ; he bad been alone 
Amid the heart of many thousand mists, 
That came to him, and left him, on the heights. 
So lived he till his eightieth year was past. 
And grossly that man errs, who should suppose 
That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, 
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. 



108 WORDSWOETH'S POEMS. 

Fields, where witli cheerful spirits he had breathed 

The common air ; hills, which with vigorous step 

He had so often climbed ; which had imprest 

So many incidents upon his mind 

Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; 

Which, like a book, preserved the memory 

Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, 

Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts 

The certainty of honorable gain ; 

Those fields, those hills — what could they less? 

had laid 
Strong hold on his affections, were to him 
A pleasurable feeling of blind love. 
The pleasure which there is in life itself. 

His days had not been passed in singleness. 
His Helpmate was a comely Matron, old — 
Though younger than himself full twenty years. 
She was a woman of a stirring life. 
Whose heart was in her house ; two wheels she had 
Of antique form ; this large, for spinning wool ; 
That small, for flax ; and if one wheel had rest, 
It was because the other was at work. 
The Pair had but one inmate in their house, 
An only Child, who had been born to them 
When Michael, telling o'er his years began 
To deem that he was old, — in shepherd's phrase, 
With one foot in the grave. This only Son 
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm. 
The one of an inestimable worth. 
Made all their household. I may truly say, 
That they were as a proverb in the vale 
For endless industry. When day was gone, 
And from their occupations out of doors 



MICHAEL. 309 

The Son and Father were come home, even then, 
Their labor did not cease ; unless when all 
Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, 
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 
Sat roimd the basket piled with oaten cakes. 
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet, when the 

meal 
Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was nsimed) 
And his old Father both betook themselves 
To such convenient work as might employ 
Their hands by the fire-side ; perhaps to card 
Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair 
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, 
Or other implement of house or field. 

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge. 
That in our ancient uncouth country style 
With huge and black projection overbrowed 
Large space beneath, as duly as the light 
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp ; 
An aged utensil, which had performed 
Service beyond all others of its kind. 
Early at evening did it burn — and late, 
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours. 
Which, going by from year to year, had found, 
And left the couple neither gay perhaps 
'Roy cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes. 
Living a life of eager industry. 
And now when Luke had reached his eighteenth 

year, 
There by the light of this old lamp they sate, 
Father and Son, while far into the night 
The Housewife plied her own peculiar work. 
Making the cottage through the silent hours 
10 



no WORDSWORTH'S FOEMS. 

Murmur as witli the sound of summer-flies. 

This L'ght was famous in its neighborhood, 

And was a pubhc symbol of the hfe 

That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, 

Their cottage on a plot of rising gi-ound 

Stood single, with large prospect, north and south;, 

High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, 

And westward to the village near the lake ; 

And from this constant light, so regular, 

And so far seen, .the House itself, by all 

Who dwelt within the limits of the vale. 

Both old and young, was named The Evening Star.. 

Thus living on through such a length of years, 
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs 
Have loved his Helpmate ; but to Michael's heart 
This son of his old age was yet more dear- 
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 
Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all — ■ 
Than that a child, more than all other gifts 
That earth can offer to declining man, 
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, 
And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
By tendency of nature needs must fail. 
Exceeding was the love he bare to him, 
His heart and his heart's joy ! For oftentimes 
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 
Had done him female service, not alone 
For pastime and delight, as is the use 
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked 
His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. 

And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
Had put on Boy's attire, did Michael love. 











M I G H A E L . Ill 






Albeit of a stern unbending mind. 






To have the Yonng-one in his sight, when lie 






Wrought in the field, or on bis shepherd's stool 






■Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched 






Under the large old oak, that near his door 






Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade, 






Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, 






Th-ence in our rustic dialect was called 






The Clipping Tree,* a name which yet it bears. 






There, while they two were sitting in the shade, 






With others round them, earnest all and blithe. 






Would Michael exercise his heart with looks 






Of fond c-orrection and reproof bestowed 






Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep 






By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 






Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. 






And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew 






A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek 






Two steady roses that were five years old ; 






Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 






With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped 






With iron, making it throughout in all 






Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, 






And gave it to the Boy ; wherewith equipt 






He as a watchman oftentimes Avas placed 






-At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ; 






And, to his office prematurely called, 






There stood the urchin, as you will divine, 






Sometliing between a hindrance and a help.; 






And for this cause not always, I believe, 






Receiving from his Father hire of praise.; 




* Clipping is the word, used in the North of England far shearing. 







112 WORDSWOKTH'S POEMS 

Thou2'li naufflit was left undone which staff, or voice, 
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform:. 

But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand 
Ag;unst the mountain blasts ; and to the heights, 
iSTot fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, 
He with his Father daily went, and they 
Y/ere as companions, why should I relate 
That objects which the Shepherd loved before 
Were dearer now ? that from the Boy there came 
Feelings and emanations — things which were 
Light to the sun and music to the wind ; 
And that the old Man's heart seemed born again? 

Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up ; 
And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, 
He v/as his comfort and his daily hope. 

While in this sort the simple household lived 
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 
Distressful tidings. Long before the time 
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 
In surety for his brother's son, a man 
Of an industrious life, and ample means ; 
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
Had prest upon him ; and old Michael now 
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 
A grievous penalty, but little less 
Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim, 
At the first hearing, for a moment took 
More hope out of his life than he supposed 
That any old man ever could have lost. 
As soon as he had armed himself with strength 
To look his trouble in the face, it seemed 
The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once 



MICHAEL. im 

A pGrticn of his patrimonial fields. 
Such was his first resolve ; he thought again, 
And his lieart failed him, " Isabel," said he. 
Two evenings after he had lieard the news, 
" I have been toiling more than seventy years. 
And in the open sunshine of God's love 
Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours 
Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 
That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
Our lot is a hard lot ; the sun himself 
Has scarcely been more diligent than I ; 
And I have lived to be a fool at last 
To my own family. An evil man 
That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
Were false to us ; and if he were net false. 
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this 
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him ;— but 
'T were better to be dumb than to talk thus. 

When I began, my purpose was to speak 
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel ; the land 
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free ; 
He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
That passes over it We have, thou know's'^ 
Another kinsman— he will be our friend 
In this distress. He is a prosperous man. 
Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall go, 
And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift 
He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
He may return to us. If here he stay. 
What can be done ? Where every one is poor, 
What can be gained ?" 

At this the old Man paused, 
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
10* 



114 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS, 

Was busy, looking back into past times. 

There 's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself^ 

He was a parish-boy— -at the church-door 

They made a gathering for him, shilhngs, pence, 

And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbors bought 

A basket, which they filled with pedlar'^s wares ; 

And, with this basket on his arm, the lad 

Went up to London, found a master there. 

Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 

To go and overlook his merchandise 

Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich. 

And left estates and moneys to the poor. 

And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floored 

With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. 

These thoughts, and many others of like sort. 

Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 

And her face brightened. The old Man was glad, 

And thus resumed : — " Well, Isabel ! this scheme 

These two days, has been meat and drink to me. 

Far moi'e than we have lost is left us yet. 

— We have enough — I wisb indeed that I 

Were younger ; — but this hope is a good hope, 

— Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best 

Buy for him more, and let us send him forth. 

To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night. 

— If he could go, the Boy should go to-night." 

Here Michael ceased, and to the fields wetit fortlx 
With a light heart. The Housewife for five days 
Was restless morn and night, and all day long 
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 
Things needful for the journey of her son. 
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
To stop her in her work : for, when she lay 



MICHAEL, 115 

By Michael's side, she through the last two nights 
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep : 
And when they rose at morning she could~see 
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon 
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves 
Were sitting at the door, " Thou must not go ; 
We have no other Child but thee to lose, 
None to remember — do not go away. 
For if thou leave thy Father he will die." 
The Youth made answer with a jocund voice ; 
And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 
Recovered heart. That evening her best fare 
Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
Like happy people roimd a Christmas fire. 

With daylight Isabel resumed her work ; 
And all the ensuing week the house appeared 
As cheerful as a grove in Spring ; at length 
The expected letter from their kinsman came, 
With kind assurances that he would do 
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy ; 
To which, requests were added, that forthwith 
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 
The letter was read over ; Isabel 
Went forth to show it to the neighbors round ; 
Nor was there at that time on English land 
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 
Had to her house returned, the old Man said, 
" He shall depart to-morrow/' To this word, 
The Housewife answered, talking much of things 
Which, if at such short notice he should go, 
Would surely be forgotten. But at length 
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease* 



116 WOEDS WORTH'S POEMS. 

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
In that deep valley, Michael had designed 
To build a Sheep-fold ; and, before he heard 
The tidings of his melancholy loss, 
For this same purpose he had gathered up 
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge 
Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
With Luke that evening thitherward he walked : 
And soon as he had reached the place he stopped, 
And thus the old Man spake to him : — " My Son, 
To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart 
I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth. 
And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 
I will relate to thee some little part 
Of our two histories ; 't will do thee good 
When thou art from me, even if I should touch 

On things thou canst not know of. After thou 

First cam'st into the world — as oft befals 
To new-born infants— thou didst sleep away 
Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue 
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, 
And still I loved thee with increasing love. 
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 
Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side 
First uttering, without words, a natural tune ; 
While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy 
Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month. 
And in the open fieMs my life was passed 
And on the mountaws ; else I think that thou 
Hadst been brought ap upon thy Father's knees. 
But we were playm^ites, Luke : among these hills, 
As well thou knowest, in us the old and young 
Have played togethe**, nor with me didst thou 



MICHAEL. 117 

Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." 

Luke had a manly heart : but at these words 

He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand, 

And said, " Nay, do not take it so — I see 

That these are things of which I need not speak. 

— Even to the utmost I have been to thee 

A kind and a good Father : and herein 

I but repay a gift which I myself 

Received at othei's' hands ; for, though now old 

Beyond the common life of man, I still 

Remember them who loved me in my youth. 

Both of them sleep together : here they lived, 

As all their Forefathers had done ; and when 

At length their time was come, they were not loth 

To give their bodies to the family mould. 

I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived : 

But, 't is a long time to look back, my Son, 

And see so little gain from threescore years. 

These fields were burdened when they came to me ; 

Till I was forty years of age, not more 

Than half of my inheritance was mine. 

I toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in my work. 

And till these three weeks past the land was free. 

— It looks as if it never could endure 

Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 

If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 

That thou should'st go." 

At this the old Man paused ; 
Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood, 
Thus, after a short silence, he resumed : 
" This was a work for us ; and now, my Son, 
It is a work for me. But, lay one stone — 
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. 
Kay, Boy, be of good hope ; — we both may live 



118 WORDSWORTH'S FOE MS. 

To see a better day. At eighty-four 

I still am strong and hale ; — do thou thy part ; 

I will do mine. — I will begin again 

With many tasks that were resigned to thee ; 

Up to the heights, and in among the storms. 

Will I without thee go again, and do 

All works which I was wont to do alone, 

Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee. Boy ! 

Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast 

With many hopes ; it should be so — yes — yes — 

I knew that thou could'st never have a wish 

To leave me, Luke : thou hast been bound to me 

Only by links of love : when thou art gone. 

What will be left to us ! — But, I forget 

My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone. 

As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke, 

When thou art gone away, should evil men 

Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 

And of this moment ; hither turn thy thoughts, 

And God will strengthen thee : amid all fear 

And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou 

May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived. 

Who, being innocent, did for that cause 

Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well — 

When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see 

A work which is not here : a covenant 

'T will be between us ; but, whatever fate 

Befal thee, I shall love thee to the last. 

And bear thy memory with me to the grave." 

The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped 
down. 
And, as his Father had requested, laid 
The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight 



MICHAEL. 119 

The old Man's grief broke from him : to his heart 

He pressed his Son : he kissed him and wept ; 

And to the house together they returned. 

— Hushed was the House in peace, or seeming peace. 

Ere the night fell : — with morrow's dawn the Boy 

Began his journey, and when he had reached 

The public way, he put on a bold face ; 

And all the neighbors, as he passed their doors. 

Came forth with wishes, and with farewell prayers, 

That followed him till he was out of sight. 

A good report did from their Kinsman come 
Of Luke and his well-doing ; and the Boy 
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 
Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were through- 
out 
"The prettiest letters that were ever seen !' 
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. 
So, many months passed on : and once again 
The Shepherd went about his daily work 
With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now 
Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 
He to that valley took his way, and there 
Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began 
To slacken in his duty ; and, at length, 
He in the dissolute city gave himself 
To evil courses : ignominy and shame 
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 

There is a comfort in the strength of love ; 
'Twill make a thing endurable, which else 
Would overset the brain, or break the heart ; 
I have conversed with more than one who well 
Remember the old Man, and what he was 



120 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Years after he had heard this heavy news. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud. 
And listened to the wind ; and, as before, 
Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep, 
And for the land, his small inheritance. 
And to that hollow dell from time to time 
Bid he repair, to build the Fold of which 
His flock had need. 'T is not forgotten yet 
The pity which was then in every heart 
For the old Man — and 't is believed by all 
That many and many a day he thither went, 
And never lifted up a single stone. 

There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen 
Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
The length of full seven years, from time to time, 
He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought. 
And left the work unfinished when he died. 
Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
Survive her Husband : at her death the estate 
Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 
The Cottage which was named the Evening Star 
Is gone — the ploughshare has been through the 

ground 
On which it stood ; great changes have been wrought 
In all the neighborhood : yet the oak is left 
That grew beside their door ; and the remains 
Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen 
Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 

1800. 





MICHAEL. 121 






TO THE DAISY. 






*'Her* divine skill tanght me this, 






That from every thiug I saw 






I could some instruction draw, 
And raise pleasure to the height 






Through the meanest object's sight. 
By the murmur of a spring, 






Or the least bough's rustelling^ 






By a Daisy whose leaves spread 






Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
Or a shady bus'n or tree ; 
She could more infuse in me 
Than all Nature's beauties can 
In some other vriser mau." 

G. Wither. 

TN youth from rock to rock I went. 
From hill to hill in discontent 










Of pleasure high and turbulent, 






Most pleased when most uneasy ; 






But now my own delights I make, — 






My thirst at every rill can slake. 






And gladly Nature's love partake. 






Of Thee, sweet Daisy ! 






Thee Winter in the garland wears 






That thinly decks his few grey hairs ; 






Spring parts the clouds with softest airs 






That she may sun thee ; 






Whole Summer-fields are thine by right ; 






And Autumn, melancholy Wight ! 

Doth in thy crimson head delight 

When rains are on thee. 

In shoals and battds, a- morrice train^ 
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane ; 
Pleased at his greeting thee again ; 
Yet nothingr daunted. 




* Hia zuasc. 




a 











"■^ 








1-23 W EDS W O E T H^S P OE MS. 


J 

\ 
■ f 




Kor grieved if thou, be set at naught : 






And oft alone in nooks remote 


! 




We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,. 


^ 




When such are wanted.' 




; 


Be violets in their secret mews 

The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose ;; 

Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 


.•: i 




Her head impearling ; 


-■ : 




" Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, 


I 




f et hast not gone without thy fame ;- 


' ! 




Thou art indeed by many a claim- 


■ i 

; 




' The Poet's darling. 


;■ 




If to a rock from rains he fly, 


; 




Or, some bright day of April sky. 






Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie 


' 




Near the green holly, 


; 




And wearily at length should fare ;' 


} [ 




He needs but look about, and there 






Thou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare 






His melancholy. 






A hundred times, by rock or bower. 






Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,. 






Have I derived from thy sweet power 






Some apprehension ; 






Some steady love ;. some brief delight ; 






Some memory that had taken flight ; 






Some chime of fancy wrong or right ;. 






■ Or stray invention. 






If stately passions in me burn, 






And one chance look to Thee shouH tunr. 


; 






„ . 



r 












;- 


TO THE DAISY. 123 




\ ■ 


3 drink out of an humbler urn 
A lowlier pleasure ; 




\ 


'The homely sympathy that heeds 
The -common life, our nature breeds:^ 




\ 


-A wisdom 'fitted to the needs 






Of hearts at leisure. 

Fresh^smitten by the morning ray, 
When thou art up, alert and gay, 
Then, cheerful Flower ! my spirits play 
With kind red gladness : 




( ■ 


And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest 






Hath often eased my pensive breast 






Of careful sadness. 
And all d-ay long I number yet. 






All seasons through, a,nother debt 






Which I, wherever thou art met. 




]. 


To thee am owing ; 


■' 


' 


An instinct call it; a blind. sense; 
A happy, genial influence, 
doming one knows not how, nor whence ' 
Mor whither going. 




■ . 


Child of the Year 1 that round dost run 


i 




Thy pleasant course, — when day's begun 




; ■ 


As ready to salute the, sun 




1 


As lark or leveret, 




\ 


Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain.; 




\ ■ 


-N'or be less d«ar to future men 
Than in old time; — ^thou not ia vain 
Art "l^ature's favorite.* 




* See, in G^jaiioer and the elde.r-.Poets, the honors formerly paid to 


L. 


'this flower. 


—It 







i 




124 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 






SONNET. 






"tHey are of the sky, 

And from our earthly memory fade away." 






^"PHOSE words were uttered as in pensive mood 
We tua-ned, departing from that solemn sight; 










A contrast and reproach to gross delight, 






And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed ! 
But now upon this, thought I cannot brood ;. 






It is unstable as a dream of night ; 






ISTor will I praise a cloud, however bright, 






Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food. 
Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built don^,. 






Though clad in colors beautiful and pure. 






Find in the heart of man no natural home ; 






The immortai Mind craves objects that endure; 




i 


These cleave to it ; from these it cannot roam^ 






Nor they from it : their fellowship is secure. 






SHE WAS A PHANTOM. 


\ 




CHE was a Phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight * 




i 






A lovely Apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament ;: 






Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; 






Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 




, 


\ But all things else about her drawn 






From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; 


■ 




A dancing Shape, an Image gay. 
To haunt, to startle,, and waylay. 






I saw her upon nearer view. 






A Spirit, yet a Woman too \ 






^ 



^Her lieuselidld Hiotions liglit anfl free, 
•And steps of virgin-liberty ; 
A countenance in which did meet 
"Sweet records, promises as sweet-; 
A Creature not too bright -or good 
¥'or human nature's daily food ; 
■For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
iPraise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles^ 

And now! see iVitli eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine; 
A Being breathing thoughtful Breatth, 
A Traveller Ijettveen life and death"; 
The reason 'firm, the temperate WiH, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill> 
A perfect woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command : 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
W-itli something of angelic light. 



ODE. 

KSTIMATIONS of IMMORTAIITY FROM RECOliLECTlOSTS 
OF EARLY CHILDHOOD^ 

The Child is Father of the Man; 
-And I couid wish my days to be 
Bound each to each hy aatural piety. 

See page 'St. 

I. 

n^HERE was a time when meadow, grove, aiid 

stream, 
Hie earth, and every common ^ight. 
To me did seem 
AppaTelled in celestial light. 
The glory and the freshness of a dream, 
11* 



■■' "^ '"''"""1 




126 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 






It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 






Turn wheresoe'er I may. 






By night or day, 




', 


The things which I have seen I now can see na more; 






II. 
The Kainhow comes and goesy 






And lovely iis the rose, 






The Moon doth with delight 






' Look round her when the heavens axe bare^ 






Waters on a starry night 






Are beautiful and fair ; 






The sunshine is a glorious birth, 






But yet I know, where'er I go, 






That there hath past away a glory from the earthl 






III. 
Now, while the birds thus sing a Joyous song, 






And while the young lambs bound 






As to the tabor's sound, 






To me alone there came a thought of grief ; 






A timely utterance gave that thought relief. 






And I again am strong : 






The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 






'No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 






I hear the Echoes through th^e mountains throng. 






The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep. 






And all the earth is gay ; 






Land and sea 






Give themselves up to jollity 






And with the heart of May 






Doth every Beast keep holiday ; — 






Thou" Child of Joy, 


• 




Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts,, thou happj^ 






Shepherd-boy 1 . ' 


■ 

i 

i 






_ 



nrtrtWiiynrh^i^fiwia-trtit 



ODE. 13? 

IV. 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 
My heart is at your festival, 
My head hath its coronal. 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel— I feel it all. 
Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning 

This sweet May-morning, 
And the Children are culling 

On every side, 
In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm : 
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
— But there's a Tree, of many, one, 
A single Field which I have looked upon, 
Both of them speak of something that is gone ; 
The Pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat ' 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 

v. 
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting i 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And cometh from afar : 

Not in entire forgetfulness. 

And not in utter nakedness. 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 



128 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Upon tlie growing Boy, 
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows. 

He sees it in his joy ; 
The Youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 
At length the Man perceives it die away 
And fade into the light of common day. 

VI. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
Yearniiigs she hath in her own natural kind. 
And, even with something of a Mother's mind, 

And no unworthy aim, 

The homely Nurse doth all she can 
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 

Forget the glories he hath known. 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

vii. 
Behold the Child among his new-bom blisses, 
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. 
With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
See at his feet, some little plan or chart. 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly -learned art ; 
A wedding or a festival, 
A mourning or a funeral ; 

And this hath now his heart. 
And unto this he frames his song: 
Then will he fit his tongue 



To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little Actor cons another part ; 
Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 



VIII. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy Soul's immensity ; 
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,— 

Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 

On whom those truths do rest, 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find. 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
A Presence which is not to be put by ; 
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 



130 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

IX. 

joy ! that in our embers. 

Is something that doth Uve, 

That nature yet remembers 

What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed. 
Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest ; 
Delight and hberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast ; 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 

But for those obstinate questionings 

Of sense and outward things, 

Fallings from us, vanishings ; 

Blank misgivings of a Creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized. 
High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised : 
But for those first affections. 
Those shadowy recollections, 

Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence ; truths that wake 

To perish never ; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, 

Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather 



ODE. 131 

Thouffh inland far we be, 

o 

Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea, 
Which brought us hither, 

Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolhng evermore. 



Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 
And let the young Lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound ! 
We in thought will join your throng, 

Ye that pipe and ye that play. 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May ! 
What though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now for ever taken from my sight. 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower ; 
We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength in what remains behind ; 
In the primal sympathy 
Which having been must ever be ; 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human sixffering ; 
In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XI. 

And 0, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 
Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 
I only have relinquished one delight 



1S2 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS, 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
I loved the Brooks which down their channels fret, 
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 

Is lovely yet ; 
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears. 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that too often lie too deep for tears. 

1803—6. 



LINES 

ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM 
ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES. 

A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain, 
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light 
Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height : 
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain 
For kindred Power departing from their sight ; 
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe 

strain, 
Saddens his voice again, and yet again. 
Lift up your hearts, ye mourners ! for the might 
Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes ; 
Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue 
Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows. 
Follow this wondrous Potentate, Be true, 
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea. 
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope ! 



HART-LEAP WELts 133 



HART-LEAP WELL. 

Hart Leap Well is a small spring of water, abont firfe miles from Ricli- 
Bionci, in Yorksbire, aud n'ear the side of the road that leads from Rich- 
mond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable Chase, the 
Memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the second 
Part of the following Poent, which monuments do now exist as I have 
there descriTbed them. 

n^HE Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor 

With the slow motion of a summer's cloud, 
And now-, as he approached a vassal's door, 
" Bring forth another horse !" he cried aloud. 

" Another horse !" — That shout the vassal heard 
And saddled his best Steed, a comely grey ; 
Sir Walter mounted him ; he was the third 
Which he had mounted on that glorious day. 

Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes ; 
The horse and horseman are a happy pair ; 
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies. 
There is a doleful silence in the air. 

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, 
That as they galloped made the echoes roar ; 
But horse and man are vanished, one and all ; 
Such race, I think, was never seen before. 

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, 
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain : 
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind. 
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. 

The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on 
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stem ; 
But breath and eyesight fail ; and, one by one, 
The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern. 
12 



134 WORDSWOETH'S POEMS, 

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race T 
The bugles that so joyfully were blown ? 
- — This chase it looks not like an earthly chase ;• 
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. 

The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side , 
I will not stop to tell how far he fled, 
ISIor will I mention by what death he died ; 
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead. 

Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn ; 
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy : 
He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his herw 
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned,. 
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat ; 
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned ; 
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. 

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched : 
His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill. 
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetelied 
The waters of the spring were trembling still. 

And now, too happy for repose or rest, 

(Never had living man such joyful lot !) 

Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and westj 

And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot 

And climbing up the hill— -(it was at least 
Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found 
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast 
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 



-HAET-LEAP WELL. t35 

Sir Walter wiped kis face, and cried, " Till now 
■Such sight was never seen by hmman eyes ; 
Three feaps have borne him from his iofty brow, 
Down to the very fountain where he lies. 

•I '11 build a pleasure-house upon this spot. 
And a small arbor, made for rural joy ; 
'T will be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, 
A place of love for damsels that are coy 

-^ cunning artist will I have t© frame 

A basin for the fountain in the dell ! 

And they who do make mention of the same, 

From this day forth, shall call it Hart-leap Weli.„ 

And, gallant Stag ! to make thy praises knowH, 
Another monument shall here be raised ; 
Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone, 
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed^ 

And, in the summer-time, when days are long, 
I will come hither with my Paramour ; 
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song 
We will make merry in that pleasant bower. 

Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
:My mansion with its arbor shall endure ; — 
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, 
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure T' 

Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, 
With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring 
— Soon did the Knight perform what he had said; 
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring-. 









136 WOEI>SWORTH''S POEMS. 




Ere thrice tbe Mocm into her port had steered,, I 
A cup of stone received the hving -well ; 

Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared, : 
And built a house of pleasure in the dell. 




And near the fountain,, flowers of stature tall 
With traihng plants and trees were intertwined> — 
• Which soon composed a little sylvan hall ; 
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.. • 




And thither, when the summer days were long^ 
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour ; 
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song 
Made merriment within that pleasant bower. 




; The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of timej>. 
And his bones he in his paternal vale.. — 
But there is matter for a second rhyme,. 
And I to this would add another tale.. 


PAKT SECOND. 




^ The moving accident is not my trade ; 

To freeze the blood I have no ready arts t 
'T is my delight, alone in summer shade. 
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. 




As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,. 
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell 
Three aspens at three corners of a square ," 
And one, not four yards distant,, near a well 


; 


What this imported I could ill divine : 
; And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop,. 
I saw three pillars standing in a line, — 
The last stone- pillar on a dark hill-top. 




. 





Tlie trees Were grey, "with neitlief arms nor head ; 
Half wasted tlie square mound of tawny green; 
So tliat you just might say, as then I said, 
'" Here -in old time the hand of liian hath been.** 

1 looked upon the hill both -far and near, 
More doleful place did never eye survey; 
It seemed as if the spring-time came not here. 
And Nature here were willing to decay. 

I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost. 
When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired. 
Came up the hollow :— him did I accost, 
And what this place might be I then inquired. 

The Shepherd stopped, and that same story toll 
Which in my former rhj^me I have rehearsed. 
" A jolly place," said he, " in times of old ! 
But something ails it now; the spot is curst. 

You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood-^ 
Seme say that they are beeches, ethers elms— 
These were th-e bower ; and here a mansion stoo^^ 
The finest palace of a hundred realms ! 

Tlie arbor does its own condition tell ; 
You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream! 
But as to the great Lodge ! you might as well 
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 

There 's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor shee|> 
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone ; 
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep 
This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. 



138 W0RDSWORTH''S- POEM'S. 

Some say tfeat here a murder has been done. 
And blood cries out for blood : but, for my part,- 
I Ve guessed, when I 've been sitting in the sun. 
That it was all for that unhappy Hart^ 

What thoughts naust through" the creature's braiif 

have past ! 
Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep, 
Are but three bounds-— and look, Sir, at this last— 
O Master ! it h-as been a cruel leap ! 

For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ; 
And in my simple mind we cannot tell 
What cause the Hart might have to love this place. 
And come and make his death-bed near the welL 

Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank. 
Lulled by the fountain in the summer tide ; 
This water was perhaps the first he drank 
When he had wandered from his mother's side t 

In April here beneath the flowering thorn 
He heard the birds their morning carols sing7 
And he perhaps, for aught we know, was bora^ 
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring. 

N'ow, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade ; 

The sun on drearier hollow never shone ;; 

So will it be, as I have often said, 

Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone/'' 

" Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well; 
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine ;, 
This Beast not unobserved by Nature, fell; 
His death was mourned by sympathy divine* 



-"—3 



SONNET. 139 

The Being, that is in the clouds and air^ 
That is in the green leaves among the groves^ 
Maintains a deep and reverential care 
For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. 

The pleasure^house is dust :— behind, before, 
This is no common waste, no common gloom ; 
But Nature, in due course of time, once more 
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 

She leaves these objects to a slow decay, 

That what we are, and have been, may be known 5 

But at the coming of the milder day, 

These monuments shall all be overgrown. 

One lesson. Shepherd, let us two divide, 
Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals ; 
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." 



isoo. 



H 



SONNET.— November First. 

OW clear, how keen, how marvellously bright 
The effluence from yon distant mountain's head, 
Which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can shed. 
Shines like another sun— on mortal sight 
Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night, 
And all her twinkling stars. Who now Would tread, 
If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head — 
Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight 
Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, 
tJnswept, unstained ? nor shall the aerial Powers 
Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure, 
White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, 
Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring 
Has filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers. 



^£stA 


\ \ 140 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

■ 






I 1 THE AFFLICTION OF MARGA.RET. 

I. 
\ \ T^HERE art thou, my beloved Son, 
1 i Where art thou, worse to me than dead ? 










Oh, find me, prosperous or undone ! 






Or, if the grave be now thy bed, 






; Why am I ignorant of the same ? 

That I may rest ; and neither blame 






Nor sorrow may attend thy name ? 

II. 

Seven years, alas ! to have received 






No tidings of an only child ; 

To have despaired, have hoped, believed. 

And been for evermore beguiled ; 






I J Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss ! 
I catch at them, and then I miss :-— 
Was ever darkness like to this ? 

III. 
He was among the prime in worth, 
An object beauteous to behold ; 
Well born, well bred ; I sent him forth 
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold : 
If things ensued that wanted grace. 
As hath been said, they were not base ? 
And never blush was on my face. 

rv. 
Ah ! little doth the young-one dream, 
When full of play and childish cares, 
What power is in his wildest scream, 
Heard by his mother unawares ! 








_ 



AFFLICTION OF MARGARET. 141 

He knows it not, he cannot guess : 
Years to a mother bring distress ; 
But do not make her love the less. 

V. 

Neglect me ! no, I suffered long 
From that ill thought ; and, being blind, 
Said, * Pride shall help me in my wrong : 
Kind mother have I been, as kind 
As ever breathed :' and that is true ; 
I've wet my path with tears like dew, 
Weeping for him when no one knew. 

VI. 

My Son, if thou be humbled, poor. 
Hopeless of honor and of gain. 
Oh ! do not dread thy mother's door ; 
Think not of me with grief and pain : 
I now can see with better eyes ; 
And worldly grandeur I despise. 
And fortune with her gifts and lies. 

VII. 

Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings. 
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight. 
They mount — how short a voyage brings 
The wanderers back to their delight ! 
Chains tie us down by land and sea ; 
And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
All that is left to comfort thee. 

VIII. 

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan. 
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ; 
Or thou upon a desert thrown 
Inheritest the lion's den : 



142 WORDSWOETH'S POEMS. 

Or hast been summoned to the deep, 
Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep 
An mcommunicable sleep. 

IX. 

I look for ghosts ; but none "will force 
Their way to me ; 'tis falsely said 
That there was ever intercourse 
Between the living and the dead ; 
For, surely, then I should have sight 
Of him I wait for day and night, 
With love and longings infinite. 

X. 

My apprehensions come in crowds ; 
I dread the rustling of the grass ; 
The very shadows of the clouds 
Have power to shake me as they pas^ : 
I question things and do not find 
One that will answer to my mind ; 
And all the world appears unkind. 

XI. 

Beyond participation lie 
My troubles, and beyond relief : 
If any chance to heave a sigh, 
They pity me, and not my grief. 
Then come to me, my Son, or send 
Some tidings that my woes may end; 
I have no other earthly friend ! 



LINES. 143 

LINES, 

WRITTEN "WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENINa. 

TTOW richly glows the water's breast 
Before us tinged with evening hues, 
While, facing thus the crimson west. 
The boat her silent course pursues ! 
And see how dark the backward stream ! 
A little moment past so smihng ! 
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam. 
Some other loiterers beguiling. 

Such views the youthful Bard allure ; 
But, heedless of the following gloom, 
He deems their colors shall endure 
Till peace go with him to the tomb. 
— And let him nurse his fond deceit. 
And what if he must die in sorrow ! 
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet. 
Though grief and pain may come to-morrow ? 

1789. 



ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS. 

'Retine vim istam, falsa enim dicam, si coges.' — Etjsebius. 

T HAVE a boy of five years old ; 
His face is fair and fresh to see ; 
His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, 
And dearly he loves me. 

One morn we strolled on our dry walk, 
Our quiet home all full in view, 
And held such intermitted talk 
As we are wont to do. 



144 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

My thoughts on former pleasures ran ; 
I thought of Kilve's dehghtful shore. 
Our pleasant home when spring began, 
A long, long year before. 

A day it was when I could bear 
Some fond regrets to entertain ; 
With so much happiness to spare, 
I could not feel a pain. 

The green earth echoed to the feet 
Of lambs that bounded through the glade, 
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet 
From sunshine back to shade. 

Birds warbled round me^and each trace 
Of inward sadness had its charm ; 
Kilve, thought I, was a favored place, 
And so is Liswyn farm. 

My boy beside me tripped, so slim 
And graceful in his rustic dress ! 
And, as we talked, I questioned him. 
In very idleness* 

" Now tell me, had you rather be," 

I said, and took him by the arm, 

" On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, 

Or here at Liswyn farm ?" 

In careless mood he looked at me, 
While still I held him by the arm. 
And said, " At Kilve I 'd rather be, 
Than here at Liswyn farm." 



ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS. 145 

" Now, little Edward, say why so : 
My little Edward, tell me why ?" — 
" I cannot tell, I do not know." — 
" Why, this is strange," said I ; 

" For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm : 
There surely must some reason be 
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm 
For Kilve by the green sea." 

At this, my boy hung down his head. 
He blushed with shame, nor made reply ; 
And three times to the child I said, 
" Why, Edward, tell me why ?" 

His head he raised — there was in sight, 
It caught his eye, he saw it plain — 
Upon the house-top, glittering bright, 
A broad and gilded vane. 

Then did the boy his tongue unlock. 
And eased his mind with this reply : 
" At Kilve there was no weather-cock ; 
And that's the reason why." 

dearest, dearest boy ! my heart 
For better lore would seldom yearn. 
Could I but teach the hundredth part 
Of what from thee I learn. 

1798. 



13 



146 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 


•~ 


THE NOEMAN BOY. 




tJiGH on a broad unfertile tract of forest-sMrted 
Down, 






Kor kept by Nature for herself, nor made by man 




his own. 




From home and company remote and every playful 




joy. 




Served, tending a few sheep and goats, a ragged 




' Norman boy. 




Him never saw I, nor the spot, but from an English 




Dame, 




Stranger to me and yet my friend, a simple notice 




came, 




With suit that I would speak in verse of that se- 




questered child 




Whom, one bleak winter's day, she met upon the 




dreary Wild. 




His flock, along the woodland's edge with relics 




sprinkled o'er 




Of last night's snow, beneath a sky threatening the 




fall of more. 




Where tufts of herbage tempted each, were busy at 




their feed, 




And the poor Boy was busier still, with work of 




anxious heed. 




There tvas he, where of branches rent and withered 




and decayed, 




For covert from the keen north wind, his hands a 




hut had made. 





r 








T H E N R M A N B Y , 147 






A. tiny tenement, forsooth, and frail, as needs must be 
A thing of such naaterials framed, by a builder such 






as he. 






The hut stood finished by his pains, nor seemingly 
lacked aught 






That skill or means of his eould add, but th€ archi- 






tect had wrought 






Some limber twigs into a Cross, well shaped with 
fingers nice, 






To be engrafted on the top of his small edifice. 
That Cross he now was fastening there, as the surest 






power and best 
For supplying all deficiencies, all wants of the rude 

nest 
In which, from burning heat, or tempest driving far 

and wide. 
The innocent Boy, else shelterless, his lonely head 

must hide. 

That Gross belike he also raised as a standard for 

the true 
And faithful service of the heart in the worst that 

might ensue 
Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the houseless 

waste 
Wher« he, in his poor self so w€ak, by Providence 

was placed. 

Here, Lady! might I cease; but nay, let us 

before we part 
With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe a prayer 

■of earaest heart. 








143 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

That unto him, where'er shall lie his life's appointed 
way, 

The Cross, fixed in his soul, may prove an all- 
sufficing stay. 



THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE. 

[The subject of the foUowmg poem is from the Orlandus of the author's 
friend, Kenehn Heiu-y Digby ; and the liberty is taken of inscribing it 
to him as an acknowledgment, however unworthy, of pleasure and 
instruction derived from his numerous and valuable writings, illustrar 
tive of the piety and chivaky of the olden time.] 

I. 

VOU have heard ' a Spanish Lady 

How she wooed an English man ;' * 
Hear now of a fair Armenian, 
Daughter of the proud Soldan : 
How she loved a Christian Slave, and told her pain 
By word, look, deed, with hope that he might love 
again. 

II. 
" Pluck that rose, it moves my liking," 

Said she, hfting up her veil ; 
" Pluck it for me, gentle gardener. 
Ere it wither and grow pale." 
"Princess fair, I till the ground, but may not take 
From twig or bed an humbler flower, even for your 
sake !" 



* See in Percy's Reliques, that fine old ballad, "The Spanish Lady's 
Love ;" from which Poem the fonn of stanza, as suitable to dialogue, is 
adopted. 



I-HB ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE. i4S 

HI. 
""Grieved am I, submissive CShristianl 

To behold thy captive state ; 
Women, in your land, may pity 
(May they not ?) the unfortunate." 
*• Tes, kind Lady ! otherwise man could not bear 
Life, which to every one that breathes is full of care." 

IV. 

'* Worse than idle is compassioDL 

If it end in tears and sighs ; 
Thee from bondage would I rescue 
And from v^e indignities ; 
Nurtured, as thy mien bespeaks, in high degree, 
Look up — and help a hand, that longs to set th^ 
free." 

V. 

** Lady 1 dread the wish, nor venture 

In such peril to engage ; 
Think how it would stir against you 
Your most loving father's rage : 
Sad deliverance would it be, and yoked with shame. 
Should troubles overflow on her from whom it came." 

VI. 

^* Generous Frank 1 the just in effort 

Are of inward peace secure : 
Hardships for the brave encountered, 
Even the feeblest may endure : 
If almighty grace through me thy chains unbind 
My father for slave's work may seek a slave in mmd." 
13* 







^ 




150 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 






VII. 






" Princess, at this burst of goodness, 






My long-frozen heart grows 'warm !'* 






" Yet you make all courage fruitless, 






Me to save from chance of harm : 






Leading such companion I that gilded dome, 






Yon minarets, would gladly leave for his worst 






home." 






VIII, 






" Feeling tunes your voice, fair Princess ! 






And your brow is free from scorn, 






Else these words would come like mockery. 






Sharper than the pointed thorn." 






" Whence the undeserved mistrust ? Too wide apart 






Qur faith hath been, — would that eyes could see 






the heart !" 






IX. 






" Tempt me not, I pray ; my doom is 






These base implements to wield ; 






Rusty lance, I ne'er shall grasp thee 






Ne'er assoil my cobwebb'd shield ! 






Never see my native land, nor castle towers. 






Nor Her, who thinMng of me there counts widowed 






hours." 






X. 






" Prisoner ! pardon youthful fancies ; 






Wedded ? If you can, say no ! 






Blessed is and be your consort ; 






Hopes I cherished — let them go ! 






Handmaid's privilege would leave my purpose fre^ 






Without antjther link to my felicity." 








__ 



THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE. 15J 

XI. 
" Wedded love with loyal Christians, 

Lady, is a mystery rare ; 
Body, heart, and soul in union, 
Make one being of a pair." 
" Humble love in me would look for no return, 
Soft as a guiding star that cheers, but cannot bum." 

XII. 

" Gracious Allah ! by such title 
Do I dare to thank the God, 
Him who thus exalts thy spirit, 
Flower of an unchristian sod ! 
Or hast thou put off wings which thou in heaven 

dost wear ? 
What have I seen, and heard, or dreamt ? where 
am I ? where ?" 

XIII. 

Here broke off the dangerous converse : 

Less impassioned words might tell, 
How the pair escaped together. 
Tears not wanting, nor a knell 
Of sorrow in her heart, while through her father's door, 
And from her narrow world, she passed for evei*- 
more. 

XIV. 

But affections higher, holier^ 

Urged her steps ; she shrunk from trust 
In a sensual creed that trampled 
Woman's birth-right into dust. 
Little be the wonder then, the blame be none, 
If she. a timid Maid, hath put such boldness on. 



152 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

XV. 

Judge both Fugitives with knowledge : 

In those old Romantic days 
Mighty were the soul*s commandments 
To support, or strain, or raise. 
Foes might hang upon their path, snakes rustle near, 
But nothing from theii* inward selves had they to fear. 

XVI. 

Thought infirm ne'er came between them, 

Whether printing desert sands 
With accordant steps, or gathering 
Forest-fruit with social hands ; 
Or whispering like two reeds that in the cold moon- 
beam 
Bend with the breeze their heads, beside a crystal 
stream. 

XVII. 

On a friendly deck reposing 

They at length for Venice steer ; 
There, when they had closed their voyage, 
One, who daily on the pier 
Watched for tidings from the East, beheld his Lord, 
Fell down and clasped his knees for joy, not uttering 
word. 

XVIII. 

Mutual was the sudden transport ; 

Breathless questions followed fast. 
Years contraclliig to a moment, 
Each word g^'eedier than the last ; 
Hie thee to the Countess, friend ! return with speed, 
And of this Stranger speak by whom her Lord was 
freed. 



THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE. 153 

XIX. 

Say that I, who might have languished, 
Drooped and pined till hfe was spent, 
Now befoi-e the gates of Stolberg 
My Deliverer would present 
For a crowning recompense, the precious grace 
Of her who in my heart still holds her ancient place. 

XX. 

Make it known that my Companion 

Is of royal eastern blood. 
Thirsting after all perfection. 
Innocent, and meek, and good. 
Though with misbelievers bred ; but that dark night 
Will holy Church disperse by beams of gospel 
light." 

XXI. 

Swiftly went that gray-haired Servant, 

Soon returned a trusty Page 
Charged with greetings, benedictions, 
Thanks and praises, each a gage 
For a sunny thought to cheer the Stranger's way. 
Her virtuous scruples to remove, her fears allay. 

XXII. 

And how blest the Reunited 

While beneath their castle-walls. 
Runs a deafening noise of welcome ! — 
Blest, though every tear that falls 
Doth m its silence of past sorrow tell. 
And makes a meeting seem most hke a dear farewell, ' 









154* WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 




XXIII. 




Through a haze of human nature, 




G-lorified by heavenly Ught, 




Looked the beautiful Deliverer 




On that overpowering sight, 




While across her virgin cheek pure blushes strayed. 




For every tender sacrifice her heart had made. 




xxrv. 




On the ground the weeping Countess 




Knelt, and kissed the Stranger's hand; 




Act of soul-devoted homage, 




Pledge of an eternal band : 




^or did aught of future days that kiss belie. 




Which, with a generous shout, the crowd did ratify. 




XXV. 




Constant to the fair Armenian, 




Gentle pleasures round her moved. 




Like a tutelary spirit 




Reverenced, like a sister, loved. 




Christian meekness smoothed for all the path of life, 




Who, loving most, should wiseliest love, their only j 




strife. 




XXVI. 




Mute memento of that union 




In a Saxon church survives, 




Where a cross-legged Knight lies sculptured 




As between two wedded Wives — 




Figures with armorial signs of race and birth. 




And the vain rank the pilgrims bore while yet on 


■ 


' earth. 

1 


L 





A WREN'S NEST. 153 



A WREN'S KEST. 

A MONG the dwellings framed by birds 
•^ In field or forest with nice care. 
Is none that with the little Wren's 
In snugness may compare. 

No door the tenement requires, 
And seldom needs a labored roof; 

Yet is it to the fiercest sim 
Impervious, and storm-proof. 

So warm, so beautiful withal, 
In perfect fitness for its aim, ' 

That to the Kind by special grace 
Their instinct surely came. 

And when for their abodes they seek 

An opportune recess. 
The hermit has no finer eye 

For shadowy quietness. 

These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls, 
A canopy in some still nook ; 

Others are pent-housed by a brae 
That overhangs a brook. 

There, to the brooding bird her mate 
Warbles by fits his low clear song ; 

And by the busy streamlet both 
Are sung to all day long. 



156 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Or in sequestered lanes they build, 
Where, till the flitting bird's return, 

Her eggs -nnthin the nest repose. 
Like relics in an urn. 

But still, -where general choice is good, 

There is a better and a best ; 
And among fairest objects, some 

Are fairer than the rest ; 

This, one of those small builders proved 
In a green covert, where, from out 

The forehead of a pollard oak. 
The leafy antlers sprout ; 

For She who planned the mossy lodge, 

Misti-usting her evasive skill, 
Had to a Primrose looked for aid 

Her wishes to fulfil ; 

High on the trunk's projecting brow. 
And fixed an infant's span above 

The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest 
The prettiest of the grove! 

The treasure proudly did I show 

To some whose minds without disdain 

Can turn to little things ; but once 
Looked up for it in vain : 

'T is gone — a ruthless spoiler's prey. 
Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 

'T is gone ! (so seemed it) and we grieved 
Indignant at the wrong. 



THEKITTEN, ETC. 157 

Just three days after, passing by 
In clearer light the moss-built cell 

I saw, espied its shaded mouth ; 
And felt that all was well. 

The Primrose for a veil had spread 
The largest of her upright leaves ; 

And thus, for purposes benign, 
A simple flower deceives. 

Concealed from friends who might disturb 

Thy quiet with no ill intent, 
Secure from evil eyes and hands 

On barbarous plunder bent, 

Rest, Mother-bird ! and when thy young 
Take flight, and thou art free to roam. 

When withered is the guardian Flower, 
And empty thy late home. 

Think how ye prospered, thou and thine. 

Amid the unviolated grove 
Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft 

In foresight, or in love. 



THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES, 

n^HAT way look, my Infant, lo! 

What a pretty baby-show ! 
See the Kitten on the wall. 
Sporting with the leaves that fall, 
14 





158 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 






Withered leaves— one — two— and tbree— • 






From the lofty elder-tree ! 






Through the calm and frosty air 






Of this morning bright and fair. 


, 




Eddying round and round they sink 






Softly, slowly ; one might think. 


:■ 




From the motions that are made. 


■; 




Every little leaf conveyed 






Sylph or Faery hither tending, — • 






To this lower world descending. 


' 




Each invisible and mute^ 






In his wavering parachute. 






But the Kitten, how she starts. 


,, 




Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts I; 






First at one, and then its fellow 






Just as light, and just as yellow ; 






There are many now — now one — 






Now they stop and there are none: ' 






What intenseness of desire 






; In her upward eye of fire ! 






With a tiger-leap half way 


, 




Now she meets the coming prey. 


: 




Lets it go as. fast, and then 


■' 




Has it in her power again: 






Now she works with three or four^. 


■ 




Like an Indian conj-uror ; 


;, 




Quick as he in feats of art. 






Far beyond in j.oy of heai't, 






Were her antics played in the eye 






Of a thousand standers-by, 






Clapping hands with shout and starej, 






What would little Tabby care 








_. 



'. 






' 


THE XITTEN, ETC, 159 






Tor the plaudits of the crowd ? 






Over happy to be proud, 






Over wealthy in the treasure 






Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 

' T is a pretty baby-treat ; 
"Nor, I deem, for me unmeet ; 






Here, for neither Babe nor me. 
Other play-mate can I see. 
Of the countless Hving things. 






That with stir of feet and wings 
,{In the sun or under shade. 
Upon bough or grassy blade) 
And with busy revellings. 
Chirp and song, and murmurings. 
Made this orchard's narrow space. 
And this vale so blithe a place ; 
Multitudes ai-e swept away 






JS'ever more to breathe the day : 






-Some are sleeping ; some in bands 






Travelled into distant lands : 






Others slunk to moor and wood, 






Far from human neighborhood ; 
And, among the Kinds that keep 
With us closer fellowship, 






With us openly abide. 


' 




AH have laid their mirth aside. 

Where is he, that giddy Sprite 
'Blue-cap, with his colors bright. 






Who was blest as bird could be^ 
^J^'eeding in the apple-tree.; 





160 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Made such wanton spoil and rout. 
Turning blossoms inside out ; 
Hung — head pointing towards the ground- 
Fluttered, perched, into a round 
Bound himself, and then unbound ; 
Lithest, gaudiest Harleqxiin ! 
Prettiest Tumbler ever seen ! 
Liffht of heart and lio-ht of limb : 
What is won become of Him ? 
Lambs, that through the mountains went 
Frisking, bleating merriment. 
When the year was in its prime. 
They are sobered by this time. 
If you look to vale or hill. 

If you listen, all is still. 

Save a little neighboring rill. 

That from out the rocky ground 

Strikes a solitary sound. 

Vainly glitter hill and plain, 

And the air is calm in vain ; 

Vainly Morning spreads the lure 

Of a sky serene and pure ; 

Creature none can she decoy 

Into open sign of joy ; 

Is it that they have a fear 

Of the dreaiy season near ? 

Or that other pleasures be 

Sweeter even than gaiety ? 

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dweU. 
In the impenetrable cell 
Of the silent heart which Nature 
Furnishes to every creature : 



J*=ltiiili= 



THE Kit T'te'rT . E 1 . ^^ 

'Whatsoe'er we feel and knOAt 

Too sedate for outward show, 

"Such alight of gladness breaks. 

Pretty Kitten 1 from thy freaks,-^ 

Spreads with sucTi a living grace 

O'er my little Laura's face ; 

Yes, ihe signt so stirs and charms 

Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms. 

That almost I could repine 

That your transports are not min©. 

That I do -not wholly fare 

TEven as ye do, thoughtless pair ! 

And I will have my careless season 

Spite of melancholy reason, 

Will walk through life' in such a wa|" 

That, when time brings on decay, 

Now and then I may possess 

'Hours t>f perfect gladsomeness. 

Pleased by any random toy ; 

^y a kitten's busy jey, 

Or an infant's laughing eye 

■Sharing in the ecstasy ; 

•I would fare like that or this, 

Fmd my wisdom in my bliss ; 

Keep the sprightly soul awake, 

And have facilities to take, 

Even from things by sorrow wrought, 

Matter for a jocund thought. 

Spite of care, and spite of grief. 

To gambol with Lifers falling Leaf. 

1804. 



14^ 



162 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

STAR-GAZERS. 

T^HAT crowd is this? what have we here I we 

must not pass it by ; 
A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky • 
Long is it as a barber's pole, or mast of little boat. 
Some little pleasure-skiff that doth on Thames's 
waters float. 

The Show-man chooses well his place, 't is Leicester's 
busy Square ; 

And is as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue 
and fair ; 

Calm, though impatient, is the crowd ; each stands- 
ready with the fee. 

And envies him that's looking ; — what an insight must 
it be ! 

Yet, Showman, where can he the cause ? Shall thy 

Implement have blame, 
A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put tO' 

shame ? 
Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault ? 
Their eyes, or minds ? or, finally, is yon resplendent 

vault ? 

Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have 

here? 
Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be 

dear? 
The silver moon with all her vales, aad hills of 

mightiest fame, 
Doth she betray us when they're seen ? or are they 

but a name ? 



STAE-GAZERS, 163 

Or is it rather that conceit rapacious is and strong, 
And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do 

her wrong ? 
Or is it, that when liuman Souls a journey long have 

had 
And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be 

sad? 

Or must we be constrained to think that these Spec- 

tatoi's rude, 
Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude, 
Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore 

prostrate lie ? 
Ho, no, this cannot be ; men thirst for power and 

majesty ! 

Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissfij 

mind employ 
Of him who gazes, or has gazed ? a grave and steady 

That doth reject all show of pride, admits no out* 

ward sign, 
Because not of this noisy world, but silent and 

divine ! 

Whatever be the cause, 't is sure that they who pry 

and pore 
Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than 

before : 
One after One they take their turn, nor have I one 

espied 
That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied. 

J806. 



!64 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

SONNET. 

^T^HElIlE is a pleasure in poetic pains 

Which only Poets know ; — 't was rightly said ; 
Whom could the Muses else allure to tread 
Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains ? 
When happiest Fancy has inspired the strains, 
How oft the malice of one luckless word 
Pursues the Enthusiast to the social board, 
Haunts him belated on the silent plains ! 
Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear, 
At last, of hindrance and obscurity, 
Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn; 
Bright, speckless, as a softly-moulded tear 
The moment it has left the virgin's eye, 
Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed thorn. 



SONNET. 



"V^HEN haughty expectations prostrate lie. 

And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing, 
Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring 
Mature release, in fair society 
Survive, and Fortune's utmost anger try ; 
Like these frail snow-drops that together cling. 
And nod their helmets, smitten by the wing 
Of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by. 
Observe the faithful flowers ! if small to great 
May lead the thoughts, thus strugghng used to stand 
The Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate ; 
And so the bright immortal Theban band. 
Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's command, 
Might overwhelm, but could not separate. 



A JEWISH FAMILY. 165 

A JEWISH FA.MILY. 

(IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR, UPON THE RHINK.) 

/^ENIUS of Raphael ! if thy wings 
^^ Might bear thee to this glen, 
With faithful memory left of things 

To pencil dear and pen, 
Thou would'st forego the neighboring Rhine, 

And all his majesty — 
A studious forehead to incline 
• O'er this poor family. 

The Mother — ^her thou must have seen, 

In spirit, ere she came 
To dwell these rifted rocks between, 

Or found on earth a name ; 
An image, too, of that sweet Boy 

Thy inspirations give — 
Of playfulness, and love, and joy. 

Predestined here to live. 

Downcast, or shooting glances far. 

How beautiful his eyes. 
That blend the nature of the star 

With that of summer skies ! 
I speak as if of sense beguiled ; 

Uncounted months are gone. 
Yet am I with the Jewish Child, 

That exquisite Saint John. 

I see the dark-brown curls, the brow, 

The smooth transparent skin. 
Refined, as with intent to show 

The holiness within ; 



166 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

The grace of parting Infancy 
By blushes yet untamed ; 

Age faithful to the mother's knee, 
Nor of her arms ashamed. 

Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet 

As flowers, stand side by side ; 
Their soiil-subduing looks might cheat 

The Christian of his pride : 
Such beauty hath the Eternal poured 

Upon them not forlorn, 
Though of a lineage once abhorred, 

Nor yet redeemed from scorn. 

Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite 

Of poverty and wrong, 
Doth here preserve a living light. 

From Hebrew fountains sprung ; 
That gives this ragged group to cast 

Around the dell a gleam 
Of Palestine, of glory past, 

And proud Jerusalem ! 



SONNET 

-, IN HER SEVENTIETH TEAR. 



OUCH age how beautiful ! Lady bright, 
Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined 
By favoring Nature and a saintly Mind 
To something purer and more exquisite 
Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st my 
sight, 



GOLD AND SILVER FISHES. 167 

When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek. 
Thy temple fringed with locks of gleaming white, 
And head that droops because the soul is meek, 
Thee with the welcome Snow-drop I compare ; 
That child of winter, prompting thoughts that climb 
From desolation toward the genial prime ; 
Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air, 
And filling more and more with crystal light 
As pensive Evening deepens into night. 



GOLD AND SILVER FISHES IN A VASE. 

n~^HE soaring lark is blest as proud 

When at heaven's gate she sings ; 
The roving bee proclaims aloud 

Her flight by vocal wings ; 
While Ye, in lasting durance pent. 

Your silent lives employ 
For something more than dull content, 

Though haply less than joy. 

Yet might your glassy prison seem 

A place where joy is known, 
Where golden flash and silver gleam 

Have meanings of their own ; 
While, high and low, and all about. 

Your motions, glittering Elves, 
Ye weave — no danger from without. 

And peace among yourselves. 

Type of a sunny human breast 
Is your transparent cell ; 



168 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Where Fear is but a transient guest, 

No sullen Humors dwell ; 
Where, sensitive of every ray 

That smites this tiny sea, 
Your scaly panoplies repay 

The loan with usury. 

How beautiful ! — Yet none knows why 

This ever-graceful change. 
Renewed — renewed incessantly — 

Within your quiet range. 
Is it that ye with conscious skill 

For mutual pleasure glide ; 
And sometimes, not without your will, 

Are dwarfed, or magnified ? 

Fays, Genii of gigantic size ! 

And now, in twilight dim, 
Clustering like constellated eyes. 

In wings of Cherubim, 
When the fierce orbs abate their glare ;- 

Whate'er your forms express, 
Whate'er ye seem, whate'er ye are — 

All leads to gentleness. 

Cold though your nature be, 't is pure ; 

Your birthright is a fence 
From all that haughtier kinds endure 

Through tyranny of sense. 
Ah ! not alone by colors bright 

Are Ye to heaven allied, 
When, like essential Forms of light, 

Ye mingle, or divide. 



SONNE!. Iby 

For day-dreams soft as e'er beguiled 

Day -thoughts while limbs repose ; 
For moonlight fascinations mild, 

Your gift, ere shutters close — 
Accept, mute Captives ! thanks and praise ; 

And may this tribute prove 
That gentle admirations raise 

Delight resembling love. 



SONNET. 

OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820. 

Q HAME on this faithless heart ! that coxild allow 
Such transport, though but for a moment's 
space ; 
Not "while, to aid the spirit of the place — 
The crescent moon clove with its glittering prow 
The clouds, or night-bird sang from shady bough ; 
But in plain daylight : — She, too, at my side. 
Who, with her heart's experience satisfied. 
Maintains inviolate its slightest vow ! 
Sweet Fancy ! other gifts must I receive ; 
Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim ; 
Take from her brow the withering flowers of eve. 
And to that brow life's morning wreath restore ; 
Let her be comprehended in the frame 
Of these illusions, or they please no more. 



15 



no WO*EDSW0HTH-'S P OEMS'. 



CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 

TTy HO is the bappy Warrior ? Who is he 

That every man in arms should wish to be f 
—It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought 
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought :' 
Whose high endeavors are an inward light 
That makes the path before him always bright : 
Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to leara J. 
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there,- 
But makes his moral being his prime care ;■ 
Who, doomed to go in company with pain. 
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable traic ! 
Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 
In face of these doth exercise a power 
Which is our human nature's highest dower ; 
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves' 
Of their bad influence, and their good receives : 
By objects, which might force the soul to abate 
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate ; 
Is placable, because occasions rise 
So often that demand such sacrifice ; 
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,- 
As tempted more ; more able to endure. 
As more exposed to suffering and distress ;■ 
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 
— 'T is he whose law is reason ; who depends 
Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 
Whence, in a state where men are tempted still 
To evil for a guard against worse ill. 



THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 17i 

And what in quality or act is best 

Doth seldom on a right foundation rest. 

He labors good on good to fix, and ow-es 

To virtue every triumph that he knows ; 

— Who, if he rise to station of command, 

Rises by ©pen means ; and there will stand 

On honorable terms, or else retire, 

And in himself possess his own desire; 

Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 

Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 

And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 

For v?ealth, or honors, or for worldly state ; 

Whom they must follow ; on whose head must fallj, 

Like showers of manna, if they come at all : 

Whose powers shed round him in the common strifCj, 

Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 

A constant influence, a peculiar grace. 

But who, if he be called upon to face 

Some awful moment to which Heaven has joinee!. 

Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 

Is happy as a Lover-; and attired 

With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; 

And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 

In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ; 

Or if an unexpected call succeed. 

Gome when it will, is equal to the need.; 

— He vfho, though thus endued as with a sense 

And faculty for storm and turbulence, 

Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 

To homefelt pleasures,, and to gentle scenes,;; 

Sweet images! which, Avheresoe'er he be. 

Are at his heart : and su<;h fidelity 

■It is his darling passion to ■dppYovp..- 



172 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

More brave for this, tliat he hath much to love : — 
'T is, finally, the Man, who, lifted high,^ 
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye. 
Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 
Who, with a toward or untoward lot. 
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not — 
Plays, in the many games of life, that one 
Where what he most doth value must be won t 
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay. 
Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; 
Who, not content that former worth stand fast, 
Looks forward, persevering to the last. 
From well to better, daily self-surpast : 
Who, whether praise of him must walk the eartB 
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth. 
Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, 
And leave a dead unprofitable name — 
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause t 
This is the happy Warrior; this is He 
That every Man in arms should wish to be.. 



PRELUDE, 



PREFIXED TO THE VOLUME ENTITLED " POEMS CHJEFL? 
OF EARLY AND LATE YEARS." 

TN desultory walk through orchard grounds. 

Or some deep chestnut grove, oft have I paused 
The while a Thrush, urged rather than resti-ained 






By gusts of vernal storm, attuned his sotig 
To his own genial instincts ; and was heard 
(Though not without some plaintive tones between| 
To utter, above showers of blossom swept 
From tossing boughs, the promise of a calnHj 
Which tlie unsheltered traveller might receive 
With thankful spirit. The descant, and the wind 
That seemed to play with it in love or scorn, 
Encouraged and endeared the strain of words 
That haply flowed from me, by fits of silence 
Impelled to livelier pace. But now, my Book! 
Charged with those lays, and others of like mood,, 
Or loftier pitch if higher rose the theme, 
60, single^-yet aspiring to be joined 
With thy Forerunners that through many a year 
Have faithfully prepared each other's way-^ 
-Qo forth upon a naission best fulfilled 
When and wherever, in this changeful world. 
Power hath been given to please for higher ends 
Than pleasure only ; gladdening to prepare 
For wholesome sadness, troubling to refine. 
Calming to raise ; and, by a sapient Art 
Diffused through all the mysteries of our Being, 
^Softening the toils and pains that have not ceased 
To cast -their shadows on our mother Earth 
Since the primeval doom. Such is the grace 
Which, though unsued for, fails net to descend 
With heavenly inspiration ; such the aim 
That Reason dictates ; and, as even the wish 
-Has virtue in it, why should hope to me 
Be wanting, that sometimes, where fancied ills 
Harass the mind and strip from off the bowers 
Of private life their natural pleasantness, 
15* 



174 WORDSWORTH'S FOEMS-. 

A Voice — devoted to the love whose seeds 

Are sown in every human breast, to beauty 

Lodged within compass of the humblest sight, \ 

To cheerful intercourse with wood and field. 

And sympathy with man's substantial griefs — 

Will not be heard in vain ? And in those days 

When unforeseen distress spreads far and wide 

Among a People mournfully cast down. 

Or into anger roused by venal words 

In recktessness flung out to overturn 

The judgment, and divert the general heart 

From mutual good — some strain of thine, my Boofe 

Caught at propitious intervals, may win 

Listeners who not unwillingly admit 

Kindly emotion tending to console 

And reconcile ; and both with young and old 

Exalt the sense of thoughtful gratitude 

For benefits that still survive, by faith 

In progress, under laws divine, maintained,. 

RYDAL MOUNT, 

JlifarcS26, 1842. 



INSCRIPTIONS 

SUPPOSED TO BE FOUNI^IN AND NEAR A HERMIT's OEJLL. 
I. 

XT OPES wh3+ are they? — Beads of morning 

Strung on slender blades of grass ; 
Or a spider's web adorning 
In a strait and treacherous pass. 



INSCRIPTIONS. 175 

What are fears but voices airy ? 
Whispering harm where harm is not ; 
And deluding the unwary 
^[\\ the fatal bolt is shot ! 

What is glory ? — in the socket 
See how dying tapers fare ! 
What is pride ? — a whizzing rocket 
That would emulate a star* 

What is friendship ? — do not trust hei°^ 
Nor the vows which she has made ; 
Diamonds dart their brightest lustre 
From a palsy-shaken head. 

What is truth ?— a staff rejected ; 
Duty ? — an unwelcome clog ; 
Joy ? — a moon by fits reflected 
In a swamp or watery bog ; 

Bright, as if through ether steering^ 
To the Traveller's eye it shone : 
He hath hailed it re-appearing — • 
And as quickly it is gone ; 

Such is Joy — as quickly hidden. 
Or mis-shapen to the sight, 
And by sullen weeds forbidden 
To resume its native light. 

What is youth ? — a dancing billow^ 
(Winds behind, and rocks before !) 
Age ? — a drooping, tottering willow 
On a flat and lazy shore. 



Sss 


Its WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

What is peace ? — when pain is over, 
And love ceases to rebels 
Let the last faint sigh discover 
That precedes the passing-knell ! 






ir. 

INSCRIBED UPON A ROCS. 






Pause, Traveller ! whosoe'er thou be 
Whom chance may lead to this retreat. 
Where silence yields reluctantly 
Even to the fleecy straggler's bleat ; 

Give voice to what my hand shall trace, 
And fear not lest an idle sound 
Of words unsuited to the place 
Disturb its solitude profoimd. 






I saw this Rock, while vernal air 
Blew softly o'er the russet heath, 






Upheld a Monument as fair 
As church or abbey furnisheth. 

Unsullied did it meet the day, 
Like marble, white, like ether, pure ; 
As if, beneath, some hero lay. 






Honored with costliest sepulture. 

My fancy kindled as I gazed ; 
And, ever as the sun shone forth. 
The flattered structure glistened, blazed, 
And seemed the proudest thing on earth. 








_^ 



SONNET. 177 

But frost had reared the gorgeous Pile 
Unsound as those which Fortune builds — 
To undermine with secret guile. 
Sapped by the very beam that gilds. 

And, while I gazed, with sudden shock 
Fell the whole Fabric to the ground ; 
And naked left this dripping Rock, 
With shapeless ruin spread around ! 



SONNET. 

TO A SNOW-DROP. 

T ONE Flower, hemmed in with snows and white 

as they 
But hardier far, once more I see thee bend 
Thy forehead; as if fearful to offend. 
Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day, 
Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, way-lay 
The rising sun, and on the plains descend ; 
Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend 
Whose zeal outruns his promise ! Blue-eyed May 
Shall soon behold this border thickly set 
With bright jonquils, their odors lavishuig 
On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers ; 
Nor will I then thy modest grace forget. 
Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, 
And pensive monitor of fleeting years ! 



178 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

EPITAPHS, 

TRANSLATED FROM CHIABRERA. 



TXT'EEP not, beloved Friends ! nor let the air 

For me with sighs be troubled. Not from life 
Have I been taken ; this is genuine life 
And this alone — the life which now I live 
In peace eternal ; where desire and joy 
Together move in fellowship without end — 
Francesco Ceni after death enjoined 
That thus his tomb should speak for him. And 

surely 
Small cause there is for that fond wish of ours 
Long to continue in this world ; a world 
That keeps not faith, nor yet can point a hope 
To good, whereof itself is destitute. 



II. 

There never breathed a man who, when his life 

Was closing, might not of that life relate 

Toils long and hard. — The warrior will report 

Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the field. 

And blasts of trumpets. He who hath been doomed 

To bow his forehead in the courts of kings. 

Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate. 

Envy and heart-inquietude, derived 

From intricate cabals of treacherous friends. 

I, who on shipboard lived from earliest youth, 

Could represent the countenance horrible 



EPITAPHS 179 

Of tlie vexed waters, and the indignant rage 

Of Auster and Bootes. Fifty years 

Over the well-steered galleys did I rule : — - 

From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars 

Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown ; 

And the broad gulfs I traversed oft and oft 

Of every cloud which in the heavens might stir 

I knew the force ; and hence the rough sea's pride 

Availed not to my Vessel's overthrow. 

What noble pomp and frequent have not I 

On regal decks beheld ! yet in the end 

I learned that one poor moment can suffice 

To equalize the lofty and the low. 

We sail the sea of life — a Calm One finds, 

And One a Tempest — and, the voyage o'er, 

Death is the quiet haven of us all. 

If more of my condition ye would know, 

Savona was my birth-place, and I sprang 

Of noble parents : seventy years and three 

Lived I — then yielded to a slow disease. 



III. 
FLOWER of all that springs from gentle blood, 
And all that generous nurture breeds to make 
Youth amiable ; friend so true of soul 
To fair Aglaia ; by what envy moved, 
Lelius ! has death cut short thy brilliant day 
In its sweet opening ? and what dire mishap 
Has from Savona torn her best delight ? 
For thee she mourns, nor e'er will cease to mourn ; 
And, should the outpourings of her eyes suffice not 



180 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

For her heart's grief, she will entreat SebetO 
Not to withhold his bounteous aid, Sebeto 
Who saw thee, on his margin, yield to death, 
In the chaste arms of thy beloved Love ! 
What profit riches ? what does youth avail ? 
Dust are our hopes ;— I, weeping bitterly. 
Penned these sad lines, nor can forbear to pray 
That every gentle Spirit hither led 
May read them not without some bitter tears. 



By a blest Husband guided, Mary came 
From nearest kindred, Yernon her new name ; 
She came, though meek of soul, in seemly pride 
Of happiness and hope, a youthful Bride. 
dread reverse ! if aught be so, which proves 
That God will chasten whom he dearly loves. 
Faith bore her up through pains in mercy given, 
And troubles that were each a step to heaven: 
Two Babes were laid in earth before she died ; 
A third now slumbers at the Mother's side ; 
Its Sister-twin survives, whose smiles afford 
A trembling solace to her widowed Lord. 

Keader ! if to thy bosom cling the pain 
Of recent sorrow combated in vain ; 
Or if thy cherished grief have failed to thwart 
Time still intent on his insidious part, 
Lulling the mourner's best good thoughts asleep, 
pilfering regrets we would, but cannot, keep ; 
Bear with Him — ^judge^m gently who makes known 






THREE YEARS SHE GREW. 

His bitter loss by tbis memorial Stone ; 

And pray that in bis faitbful breast the grace 

Of resignation find a hallowed place. 



161 



THREE YEARS SHE GREW. 

rpHREE years she grew in sun and shower, 

Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 
On earth was never sown ; 
This Child I to myself will take ; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 
A Lady of my own. 

Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse : and with me 

The Girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower. 

Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 
Or up the mountain springs ; 
And her's shall be the breathing balm, 
And her's the silence and the calm 
Of mute insensate things. 

The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her ; for her the willow bend, 
Nor shall she fail to see 
Even in the motions of the Storm 
Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 
By silent sympathy. 
16 



" ■■ ■~~. .-^,..^.»..>„f^-f..,>.,v.,^->^....^r.>>.^.,^».^v.,„.,.t^.,,.,.,^.»,,.^-.,,.^>l,^>....„n.~<...>««.^,»,>-,>„.n..^^ 


im- WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. ' 


The stars of midnight shall be dear '■ 
To her ; and she shall lean her ear ' 


In many a secret place 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,. 


And beauty born of murmuring sound 


Shall pass into her face. 


And vital feelings of delight 


Shall rear her form to stately height, 
) Her virgin bosom swell ; 

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 


While she and I together live 


Here in> this happy dell." 


Thus Nature spake- — ^The work was done— ' 


How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
She died, and left to me 


This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; 


The memory of what has been, 

1 And never more wili be. 

1790; 

^f ■: ~ 


THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. 


A T the corner of Wood Street, when daylight 


appears, 
; Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for 


■ three years : 

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard 
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird, 


'T is a note of enchantment ; what ails her ? She 


sees 


A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 





fi 6 N N E T-. .18S 

Bright columns of vapor throagli Lofhbury glide, 
And a river flows on througli the vale of Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; 
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, 
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 

She looks, and her heart is in heaven ; but they fade. 
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade : 
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 
And the colors have all passed away from her ej^es ! 



SONNET. 

COMPOSED DURING A STORM. 

;|T|NE who was suffering tumult in his soul 

Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer, 
Went forth — his course surrendering to the care 
•Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl 
Insidiously, lintimely thunders growl ; 
While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, tear 
The lingering remnant of their yellow hair. 
And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl 
As if the sun were not. He raised his eye 
Soul-smitten ; for, that instant, did appear 
Large space (mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky:. 
An azur-e disc — shield of tranquillity; 
Invisible, unlooked-for, minister 
■ Of providential .goodness. ever nigh! 



184 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 



LAODAMIA. 

" \A/'ITH sacrifice before the rising morn 

Vows have I made by fruitless hope in- 
spired ; 
And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn 
Of night, m}^ slaughtered Lord have I required : 
Celestial pity I again implore ; — 
Restore him to my sight — great Jove, restore !" 

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 

With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands ; 

While, like the sun emerging from a cloud. 

Her countenance brightens — and her eye expands ; 

Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows; 

And she expects the issue in repose. 

terror ! what hath she perceived ? — O joy I 
What doth she look on ? — whom doth she behold ? 
Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? 
His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ? 
It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis He ! 
And a God leads him, winged Mercury ! 

Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with his -wand 
That calms all fear; "Such grace hath crowned 

thy prayer, 
Laodamia ! that at Jove's command 
Thv Husband walks the paths of upper air : 
He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space ; 
Accept the gift, behold him face to face !" 

Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to 

clasp ; 
Again that consummation she essayed ; 



LAODAMIA.'. 

But unsttbstantial Form eludes her graSp 
As often as that eager grasp was made. 
The Phantom parts-^but parts to re-unitOj 
And re-assume his place before her sight. 

" Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone! 
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice : 
This is thy palace,-^yonder is thy throne; 
Speak, and the floor thou tread 'st on will r 
J^ot to appal me have the gods bestowed 
This precious boon ; and blest a sad abode." 

" G-reat Jove, Laodamia ! doth not leave 
His gifts imperfect :^Spectre though I be, 
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; 
But in reward of thy fidelity. 
And something also did my worth obtain ; 
'For ^fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 

Thou knowest, the Delphic otacle foretold 

That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strani 

Should die ; but me the threat could not withhold : 

A generous cause a victim did demand ; 

And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain; 

A self-devoted chief-^by Hector slain." 

"Supreme of Heroes — ^bravest, noblest, "best! 

Thy matchless courage I bewail no more 

Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest 

By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; 

Thou found'st^and I forgive thee— here thou art-^ 

A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 

But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ■; 
16* 



186 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed 
Thou should'st elude th« malice of the grave : 
Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 
As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. 

No Spectre greets me, — ^no vain shadow this ; 
Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side ! 
Give, on this well-known- couch, one nuptial kiss 
To me, this day, a second time thy bride !" 
Jove frowned in Heaven : the conscious Parcee threw 
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 

" This visage tells thee that my doom is pa^t ; 

Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys 

Of sense were able to return as fast 

And surely as they vanish. Earth destroy& 

Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains : 

Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. 

Be taught, faithful Consort, to control 
Rebellious passion : for the Gods approve 
The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul : 
A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn 
When I depart, for brief is my sojurn — " 

" Ah, wherefore ? — Did not Hercules by force 
Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb 
Alcestis, a reanimated corse. 
Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom ? 
Medea's spell dispersed the weight of years, 
And -^son stood a youth 'mid youthful peersi 

The Gods to us are merciful — and they 
Yet further may relent : for mightier faj? 



LAODAMIA. 187 

Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway 

Of magic potent over sun and star, 

Is love, though oft to agony distrest, 

And the' his favorite seat be feeble woman's breast. 

But if thou goest, I follow" — -" Peace !" he said,— 

She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered ; 

The ghastly color from his lips had fled ; 

In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared 

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace. 

Brought from a pensive though a happy place. 

He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel 
In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 
No fears to beat away— no strife to heal 
The past unsighed for, and the future sure ; 
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 
Revived, with finer harmony pursued ; 

Of all that is most beauteous — imaged there 

In happier beauty ; more pellucid streams, 

An ampler ether, a diviner air, 

And fields invested with purpureal gleams ; 

Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day 

Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 

Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned 

That privilege by virtue. — " 111," said he, 

" The end of man's existence I discerned, 

Who from ignoble games and revelry 

Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight, 

While tears were thy best pastime, day and night ; 

And while my youthful peers before my eyes 
(Each hero following his pecuhar bent) 



188 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
By martial sports,— or, seated in the tent, 
Chieftains and kings in council were detained ; 
What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 

The wished -for wind was given : — I then revolved 
The oracle, upon the silent sea ; 
And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 
That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
The foremost prow in pressing to the strand,-— 
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 

Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 

When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife ! 

On thee too fondly did my memory hang, 

And on the joys we shared in mortal life,— 

The paths which we had trod— these fountain 

flowers ; 
My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. 

But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, 
* Behold they tremble !— haughty their array, 
Yet of th«ir number no one dares to die ?' 
In soul I swept the indignity away : 
Old frailties then recurred : — but lofty thought 
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 

And Thou, though strong in love, art all too weak 

In reason, in self-government too slow ; 

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 

Our blest re-union in the shades below. 

The invisible world with thee hath sympathized ; 

Be thy affections raised and solemnized. 

Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend — ' 
Seeking a higher object. Love was given> 



LAODAMIA. 189 

Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ; 
For this the passion to excess was driven — 
That self might be annulled : her bondage prove 
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." 

Aloud she shrieked! for Hermes reappears! [vain: 

Round the dear shade she would have clung — 't is 

The hours are past — too brief had they been years ; 

And him no mortal effort can detain : 

Swift toward the realms that know not earthly day, 

He through the portal takes his silent way, 

And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse She lay. 

Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved, 
She perished ; and, as for a wilful crime. 
By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved. 
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time. 
Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather flowers 
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 

— Yet tears to human suflfering are due ; 

And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 

Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, 

As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 

Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained, 

A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 

From out the tomb of him for whom she died ; 

And ever, when such stature they had gained 

That Ilium's walls were subject to their view. 

The trees' tall summits withered at the sight ; 

A constant interchange of growth and blight !* i8l4 

* For the account of these long-lived trees, see Pliny's Natural His- 
tory, lib. xvi. cap. 44 ; and for the features in the character of Protesi" 
laus, see the Iphigenia in Aulis of Euripides. Virgil places the Shade of 
Laodamia in a mournful region, among unhappy Lovers, 

His Laodamia 

It comes 



190 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS, 



ON THE POWER OF SOUND. 



ARGUMENT. 

The Ear addressed, as occupied by a spiritual functionary, in communion 
with sounds, individual, or combined in studied harmony. — Sources 
and effects of those sounds (to the close of the 6tL Stanza). — The power 
of music, whence proceeding, exemplified in the idiot. — Origin of 
music, and its effect in early ages — how produced (to the middle of the 
10th stanza) — The mind retailed to sounds acting casually and seve- 
rally. — Wish uttered (1 1th Stanza) that these could be united into a 
scheme or system for moral interests and intellectual contemplation. — 
(Stanza 12th). The Pythagorean theory of numbers and music, with 
their supposed power over the motions of the universe — imaginations 
consonant with such a theory. — Wish expressed (in 11th Stanza) real- 
ized, in some degree, by the representation of all sounds under the 
form of thanksgiving to the Creator. — (Last Stanza) the destruction 
of earth and the planetary system — the survival of audible harmony 
and its support in the Divine Nature, as revealed in Holy Writ. 



1. 

nnHY functions are ethereal, 

As if within thee dwelt a glancing minci, 
Organ of vision ! And a Spirit aerial 
Informs the cell of Hearing dark and blind ; 
Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought 
To enter than oracular cave ; 
Strict passage, through which sighs are brought, 
And whispers for the heart their slave ; 
And shrieks, that revel in abuse 
Of shivering flesh ; and warbled air, 
Whose piercing sweetness can unloose 
The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile 
Into the ambush of despair ; 
Hosannas pealing down the long-drawn aisle. 
And requiems answered by the pulse that beats 
Devoutly, in life's last retreats ? 



ON THE POWER OF SOUND. lUl 

II. 

The headlong streams and fountains 

Serve Thee, invisible Spirit, with untired powers ; 

Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian mountains, 

They lull perchance ten thousand thousand flowers. 

That roar, the prowling lion's Here I am, 

How fearful to the desert wide ! 

That bleat, how tender ! of the dam 

Callinsr a strawler to her side. 

Shout, cuckoo ! let the vernal soul 

Go with thee to the frozen zone; 

Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone bell-bird, toll! 

At the still hour to Mercy dear, 

Mercy from her twilight throne 

Listening to Nun's faint throb of holy fear, 

To sailor's prayer breathed from a darkening sea, 

Or widow's cottage-lullaby. 

III. 
Ye Voices and ye shadows, 
And Images of voice — to hound and horn 
From rocky steep and rock-bestudded meadows 
Flung back, and, in the sky's blue caves, reborn— 
On with your pastime ! till the church tower bells 
A greeting give of measured glee ; 
And milder echoes from their cells 
Repeat the bridal symphony. 
Then, or far earlier, let us I'ove 
Where mists are breaking up or gone. 
And from aloft look down into a cove. 
Besprinkled with a careless quire, 
Happy milk-maids, one by one, 
Scatteiing a ditty each to her desire, 
A liquid concert matchless by nice Art, 
A stream as if from our full heart. 



192 WORDSWOKTH'S POEMS. 

IV. 

Blest be tlie song that brightens 

The blind man's gloom, exalts the veteran's mirth ; 

Unscorned the peasant's whistling breath, that 

lightens 
His duteous toil of furrowing the green earth. 
For the tired slave, Song lifts the languid oar, 
And bids it aptly fall, with chime 
That beautifies the fairest shore, 
And mitigates the harshest clime. 
Yon pilgrims see — in lagging file 
They move ; but soon the appointed way 
A choral Ave Marie shall beguile, 
And to their hope the distant shrine 
Glisten with a livelier ray : 
Not friendless he, the prisoner of the mine, 
Who from the well-spring of his own clear breast 
Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest. , 

V. 

When civic renovation 

Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste 

Best eloquence avails not, Inspiration 

Mounts with a tune, that travels like a blast 

Piping through cave and battlemented tower ; 

Then starts the sluggard, pleased to meet 

That voice of Freedom, in its power 

Of promises, shrill, wild, and sweet ! 

Who, from a martial pageant, spreads 

Incitements of a battle-day. 

Thrilling the unweaponed crowds with plumeless 

heads ? — 
Even She, whose Lydian airs inspire 
Peaceful striving, gentle play 
Of timid hope and innocent desire 



ON THE roWER OF SOUND, 

Shot from the dancing Graces, as they move 
Fanned by the plausive wings of Love. 

VI. 

How oft along thy mazes, 

Regent of sound, have dangerous Passions trod ! 

Thou, through whom the temple rings with 

praises. 
And blackening clouds in thunder speak of God, 
Betray not by the cozenage of sense 
Thy votaries, wooingly resigned 
To a voluptuous influence 
That taints the purer, better mind ; 
But lead sick Fancy to a harp 
That hath in noble tasks been tried ; 
And, if the virtuous feel a pang too sharp, 
Soothe it into patience, — stay 
The uplifted arm of Suicide ; 
And let some mood of thine in firm array 
Knit every thought the impending issue needs, 
Ere martyr burns, or patriot bleeds ! 

VII. 

As Conscience, to the centre 
Of being, smites with irresistible pain. 
So shall a solemn cadence, if it enter 
The mouldy vaults of the dull idiot's brain. 
Transmute him to a wretch from quiet hurled— 
Convulsed as by a jarring din ; 
And then aghast, as at the world. 
Of reason partially let in 
By concords winding with a sway 
Terrible for sense and soul ! 
Or, awed he weeps, struggling to quell dismay. 
Point not these mysteries to an Art 
17 



i94' WaKDS WORTH'S POEMSv 

Lodged above the starry pole ; 

Pure modulations flowing from the heart 

Of divine Love, vsrhere Wisdom^ Beauty, Truths 

With Order dwell,^ in endless youth ? 

Yin. 
Oblivion may not cover 
All treasures hoarded by the miser, Time. 
Orphean Insight ! truth's undaunted lover, 
To the first leagues of tutor'd passion climbj, 
When Music deigned within this grosser spheFe 
Her subtle essence to- unfold. 
And voice and shell drew forth a tear 
Softer than Nature's self could mould. 
Yet strermous was the infant Age : 
Art, daring because souls could feel, 
Stirred nowhere ; but an urgent equipage' 
Of rapt imagination sped her march 
Through the realms of woe and weal : 
Hell to the lyre bowed low ; the upper arch' 
Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic vers©- 
Her wan disasters could disperse. 

IS-. 

The Gift to king Amphiort 

That walled a city with its melody 

Was for belief no dream :— Thy skill, Arionr 

Could humanize the creatures of the sea, 

Where men were monsters. A last grace he craves^ 

Leave for one chant; — ^the dulcet sound 

Steals from the deck o'er willing waves. 

And listening dolphins gather round 

Self-cast,' as with a desperate course 

'Mid that strange audience, he bestrides 

A proud One docile as a managjed horse ^ 









\ 


ON THE POWER OF SOUND. 195 




l 


And sinofino", while the aceordant hand 

Sweeps his harp, the Master rides ; 

So shall he touch at length a friendly strand. 


' 




And he, with his preserver, shine star-bright 






In memory, through silent night. 




'. 


The pipe of Pan, to shepherds 




': 


Couched in the shadow of Msenalian pines, 






Was passing sweet ; the eyeballs of the leopard^ 






That in high triumph drew the Lord of vines. 
How did they sparkle to the cymbal's clang ! 






While Fauns and TSatyrs beat the ground 






In cadence, — and Silenus swang 






This way and that, with wild-fiowers crowned. 






To life, to life, give back thine ear : 






Ye who are longing to be rid 






•Of fable, though to truth subservient, hear 


i 




The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell 


I 




Echoed from the coffin-hd ; 


■ 




The convict's summons in the steeple's knell ; 
"* The vain distress-guns," from a leeward shone. 






Repeated — heard and heard no more ! 






■SI. 

:For terror, joy,- or pity. 


i 




Tast is the compass and the swell of notes: 






'From the babe's first cry to voice of regal city 


i 


. 


EoUing a solemn sea-like bass, that floats 


\ 




Far as the weodlands — with the trill to blend 
"Of that shy songstress, whose love-tale 
Might tempt an angel to descend. 






While hovei'ing o'er the moonlight va.le. 






Ye wandering Utterances, has earth no scheme. 






'M'o scale of moral music — to unite 


■ 



196 WORDSWORTH'S rOEMS. 

Powers that survive but in the faintest dream 

Of memory ? — that ye might stoop to bear 

Chains, such precious chains of sight 

As labored minstrelsies through ages wear I 

for a balance fit the truth to tell. 

Of the Unsubstantial, pondered well ! 



By one pervading spirit, 

Of tones and numbers all things are eontrolledy 

As sages taught, where faith was found to merit, 

Initiation in that mystery old. 

The heavens, whose aspect makes our minds as still 

As they themselves appear to be. 

Innumerable voices fill 

With everlasting harmony ; 

The towering headlands, crowned with mist. 

Their feet among the billows, know 

That Ocean is a mighty harmonist ; 

Thy pinions, universal Air, 

Ever waving to and fro. 

Are delegates of harmony, and bear 

Strains that support the Seasons in their round ; 

Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound. 

XIII. 

Break forth into thanksgiving, 

Ye banded instruments of wind and chords ; 

Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, 

Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words I 

Nor hushed be service from the lowing mead, 

Nor mute the forest hum of noon ; 

Thou too be heard, lone eagle ! freed 

From snowy peak and cloud, attunfr 



'ON THE POWER ©F SC^UNB. 

Hi}'- fetingry bartings to the hymn 

Of joy, that from her utmost walls 

The sis-days' Work, by flaming Seraphiiii 

Transmits to Heaven 1 As Deep to Deep 

Shouting through one valley calls. 

All woiids, all natures, mood and measure keep 

Tor praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured 

Into the ear of God, their Lord ! 



XIV. 

A Voice to Light gave Being ; 

To Time, and Man his earth-born chronicler; 

A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing. 

And sweep away life's visionary stir; 

l^he trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride. 

Arm at its blast for deadly wars) 

To archangelic lips applied. 

The grave shall open, quench the stars. 

O Silence, are Man's noisy years 

No more than moments of thy life ? 

Is harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears, 

With her smooth tones and discords just, 

Tempered into rapturous strife. 

Thy destined bond-slave ? JSFo ! though Earth be du^t 

And vanish, though the heavens dissolve, her stay 

Is in the Word, that shall not ;pass away.. 

47* 




198 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

ODE. 

eOMPOSED trPON AR EVENING OF EXTRAOai>INAK¥ 
BEAUTY AND SPLENDOR. 

I. 

tXAD tilis eifulg^ence disappeared 

With flying haste, I might have sent. 
Among the speechless clouds, a look 
Of blank astonishment ; 
But 't is endued with power to stay 
And sanctify one closing day. 
That frail Mortality may see— 
What is? — ah no, but v/hat can be! 
Time was Avhen field and watery cove 
With modulated echoes rang, 
While choirs of fervent Angels sang 
Their vespers in the grove ; 
Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign 

height. 
Warbled, for heaven above and earth below. 
Strains suitable to both.^Such holy rite, 
Methinks, if audibly repeated now 
From hill or valley could not move 
Sublimer transport, purer love, 
Than doth this silent spectacle- — the gleam>— »- 
The shadow — and the peace supreme ! 

II. 
Ko sound is uttered, — but a deep 
And solemn harmony pervades 
The hollow vale from steep to steep^. 
And penetrates the glades. 
Far-distant images draw nigh, 
Called forth by wondrous potency 



ODE 199 

Of "beamy radiance that imbues, 

Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues ! 

In vision, exquisitely clear, 

Herds range along the mountain-side ; 

And glistening antlers are descried ; 

And gilded flocks appear. 

Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve ! 

But long as Godlike wish, or Hope divine^ 

Informs tny spirit, ne'er can I believe 

That this magnificence is vrholly thine ! 

—From worlds not quickened by the sun 

A portion of the gift is won ; 

An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread 

On ground which British shepherds tread ! 

HI. 

And, if there be, whom broken ties 

Afflict, or injuries assail, 

Yon hazy ridges to their eyes 

Present a glorious scale, 

Climbing suffused with sunny air^ 

To stop — no record hath told where ! 

And tempting Fancy to ascend 

And with immortal Spirits blend ! 

"^ Wings at my shoulders seem to play ; 

But, rooted here, I stand and gaze 

On those bright steps that heaven-ward raise 

Their practicable way^ 

Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad 

And see to what fair countries ye are bound ! 

And if some traveller, weary of his road, 

Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground, 

Ye Genii ! to his covert speed ; 

And wake him with sucb gentle heed ? 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

As may attune his soul to meet the dower 
Bestowed on this transcendent hour ! 

IV. 

Such hues from their celestial Urn 

Were wont to stream before mine eye> 

Where'er it wandered in the morn 

Of blissful infancy. 

This gUmpse of glory, why renewed ? 

Nay, rather speak with gratitude ; 

For, if a vestige of those gleams 

Survived, 't was only in my dreams. 

Dread Power ! whom peace and calmness serve 

No less than Nature's threatening voice, 

If aught unworthy be my choice, 

From Thee if I would swerve ; 

Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light 

Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored ; 

Which, at this moment, on my waking sight 

Appears to shine, by miracle restored ; 

My soul, though yet confined to earth, 

Rejoices in a second birth ! 

— 'T is past, the visionary splendor fades ; 

And night approaches with her shades. 

1818. 

Nota.—The multiplication of mountain-ridges, described at the com- 
mencement of the third Stanza of this Ode, as a kind of Jacob's Ladder, 
leading to Heaven, is produced either by watery vapors, or sunny haze; 
in the present instance by the latter cause. Allusions to the Ode, entitled 
" Intimations of Immortality;" pervade the iast Stanza of the foregoing 
Poem 



V 

RUTH. 20J 

RUTH. 

T\^HEN Ruth was left half desolate. 

Her Father took another Mate ; 
And Ruth, not seven years old, 
A slighted child, at her own will 
Went wandering over dale and hill. 
In thoughtless freedom, bold. 

And she had made a pipe of straw, 
And music from that pipe could draw 
Like sounds of winds and floods ; 
Had built a bower upon the green, 
As if she from her birth had been 
An infant of the woods. 

Beneath her father's roof, alone 
She seemed to live ; her thoughts her own ; 
Herself her own delight ; 
Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay ; 
And, passing thus the live-long day, 
• She grew to woman's height. 

There came a Youth from Georgia's shore — 

A military casque he wore, 

With splendid feathers drest 

He brought them from the Cherokees 

The feathers nodded in the breeze, 

And made a gallant crest. 

From Indian blood you deem him sprung : 
But no ! he spake the English tongue, 
And bore a soldier's name ; 
And, when America was ft-ee 
From battle and from jeopardy. 
He 'cross the ocean came. 



202 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

With hues of genius on his cheek 
In finest tones the Youth could speak : 
— While he was yet a boy, 
The moon, the glory of the sun, 
And streams that murmur as they run, 
Had been his dearest joy. 

He was a lovely Youth ! I guess 

The panther in the wilderness 

Was not so fair as he ; 

And, when he chose to sport and play. 

No dolphin ever was so gay 

Upon the tropic sea. 

Among the Indians he had fought, 
And with him many tales he brought 
Of pleasure and of fear ; 
Such tales as told to any maid 
By such a Youth, in the green shade. 
Were perilous to hear. 

He told of girls — a happy rout ! 

Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 

Their pleasant Indian town, 

To gather strawberries all day long ; 

Returning with a choral song 

When daylight is gone down. 

He spake of plants that hourly change 
Their blossoms, through a boundless range 
Of interminghng hues ; 
With budding, fading, faded flowers, 
They stand the wonder of the bowers 
From morn to evening dews. 



EU'TH. 203 

He told of the magnolia, spread 
High as a cloud, high over head ! 
The cypress and her spire ; 
— Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 
Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 
To set the hills on fire. 

The Youth of green savannahs spake, 
And many an endless, endless lake, 
With all its fairy crowds 
Of islands, that together lie 
As quietly as spots of sky 
Among the evening clouds. 

"How pleasant," then he said, " it were 

A fisher or a hunter there, 

In sunshine or in shade 

To wander with an easy mind ; 

And build a household fire, and find 

A home in every glade ! 

What days and what bright years ! Ah me ! 

Our life were life indeed, with thee 

So passed in quiet bliss. 

And all the while," said he, " to know 

That we were in a world of woe, 

On such an earth as this !" 

And then he sometimes interwove 
Fond thoughts about a father's love : 
"For there," said he, "are spun 
Around the heart such tender ties, 
That our own children to our eyes 
Are dearer than the sun. 



204 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Sweet Rutli ! and could you go with me 

My helpmate ia the woods to be, 

Our shed at night to rear ; 

Or run, my own adopted bride, 

A sylvan huntress at my side, 

And drive the flying deer. 

Beloved Ruth !" — No more he said. 
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 
A solitary tear : 

She thought again— and did agree 
With him to sail across the sea. 
And drive the flying deer. 

"And now, as fitting is and right, 
We in the church our faith will plight, 
A husband and a wife." 
Even so they did ; and I may say 
That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
Was more than human life. 

Through dream and vision did she sink, 
Delighted all the while to think 
That on those lonesome floods, 
And green savannahs, she should share 
His board with lawful joy, and bear 
His name in the wild woods. 

But, as you have before been told, 
This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, 
And, with his dancing crest, 
So beautiful, through savage lands 
Had roamed about, with vagrant bands 
Of Indians in the West. 



EUTH. 205 

The wind, the tempest roaring high, 

The tumult of a tropic sky, 

Mio-ht well be dangerous food 

For him, a Youth to whom was given 

So much of earth — so much of heaven, 

And such impetuous blood. 

Whatever in those climes he found 

Irregular in sight or sound 

Did to his mind impart 

A kindred impulse, seemed allied 

To his own powers, and justified 

The workings of his heart. 

Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought. 
The beauteous forms of nature wrought, 
Fair trees and gorgeous flowers ; 
The breezes their own languor lent ; 
The stars had feelings, which they sent 
Into those favored bowers. 

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
That sometimes there did intervene 
Pure hopes of high intent ; 
For passions linked to forms so fair 
And stately, needs must have their share 
Of noble sentiment. 

But ill he lived, much evil saw. 
With men to whom no better law 
Nor better life was known ; 
Deliberately, and undeceived, 
Those wild men's vices he received, 
And gave them back his own. 

18 





206 WOE'DS WORTH'S PO'EBFSv 

His genius and his mora! frame 
Were thus impaired, and he became' 






The slave of low desires ; 


I 




A Man who without self-control 






Would seek what the degraded sout 


; 'i 


: 


Wnworthily admires. 


j 




And yet he with no feigned delight 


• 


■ 


Had wooed the Maiden^ day and night' 
^ Had loved her, night and morn : 


) 




What could he less than love a Maid 
' Whose heart with so much nature played fi 


' 




; Eo kind and so forlorn 1 

Sometimes, most earnestly, he said. 


; 




" Ruth ! I have been worse than dead>. 


;' 




False thoughts, thoughts bold and vaia>. 


I 




i Encompassed me en every side 


■■ 




When I, in confidence and pride. 






Had crossed the Atlantic main. 






Before me shone a glorious world — ■ 


i 
" 




Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled 






To music suddenly : 


1 




I looked upon those hills and plainSj, 


• 




And seemed as if let loose from chainSj, 


'i 




To live at liberty. 


t 




1^0 more of this ; for now, by thee. 






j Dear Ruth ! more happily set free 


: 


• 


With nobler zeal I burn ; 


. ; 




My soul from darkness is released. 


^ 




Like the whole sky when to the east 






The morning doth return^" 








__ 



RUTH. 2QJ 

'Full soon "that better raiEd was gone-; 
-K"© hope, no wish remained, not one, — 
They stirred, him now no more ; 
.New objects did new pleasure .give. 
And onee again he wished to live 
.As lawless as before. 

.Meanwliile, as thus with him it. fared, 
-They for the voyage were prepared, 
.And went to the sea-shore, 
:But, when they thither came, the Youth 
.Deserted his poor Bride, and Euth 
'Oouldneverfind him more. 

iGod help thee, Ruth ! — ^Su<;h pains she ha4. 

That she in half a year was naad. 

And in a prison housed ; 

And there, with many a doleful song 

Made of wild words, her cup of wrong 

•She fearfully , caroused. 

Wet sometimes milder hours she knew:.. 
Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 
Nor pastimes of the May ; 
• — They all were with her in her cell; 
And a clear brook with cheerful kneM 
•Did o'er the pebbles play. 

'When E.uth three seasons thus had laia. 
There cam-e a respite to her pain ; 
She from her prison fled; 
But of the Yagrant none took thought; 
And where it liked her best she sought 
:Her shelter and her bread. 



208 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS, 

Among the fields she breathed again : 
The master-current of her brain 
Ran permanent and free ; 
And, coming to the Banks of Tone, 
There did she rest ; and dwell alone 
Under the greenwood tree. 

The engines of her pain, the tools 

That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools. 

And airs that gently stir 

The vernal leaves — she loved them still : 

Nor ever taxed them with the ill 

Which had been done to her. 

A Barn her winter bed supplies ; 

But, till the warmth of summer skies 

And summer days is gone 

(And all do in this tale agree)^, 

She sleeps beneath the greenwood, tree^ 

And other home hath none. 

An innocent life, yet far astray ! 

And Ruth will, long before her day. 

Be broken down and old : 

Sore aches she needs must have ! but le&& 

Of mind, than body's wretchedness. 

From damp, and rain, and cold. 

If she is prest by want of food, 
She from her dwelling in the wood 
Repairs to a road -side ; 
And there she begs at one steep place 
Where up and down with easy pace 
The horsemen-travellers ride.. 



To THE CUCKGO. 

l!Tiat oaten pipe of hevs is mute, 
'^Or throwTi away; bufwith a flute 
fler loneliness she cheers : 
This flute, Baacie of a he mlodt stalk, 
At evening in his hotiaeward walk 
The <^uant6ck wdodmao hears. 

I, too, have passed her on the hills 
■'Setting her little water-mills 
By spouts and fountains wild — 
Such small maehinery as she turaeS. 
'Ere she had wept, ere she had mournelL, 
A young anl hap|)y Child 1 

li'arewell ! a:nd when tliy days ate told, 

Ill-fated Ruth, in hallowed mould 

Thy coi-pse shall buried be, 

^or thee a funeral bell shall ring, 

And all the congregation sing 

•A dhristiaa ,psalm for -thee. 



it^ 



1^0 TSE CtJCKOO. 

(F) BLITHE New-comer ! I have liearl^ 

I hear thee and rejoice. 
^O Cuclioo ! shall I call thee Bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice ? 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy two-fold shout I hear, 
S'rom hill to hill it seems to pass 
At once far off, and near. 





310 WORDSWORTH'S POBMSv 


=f-: 




Though babbling only to the Vale,^ 
Of sunshine and of flowers. 






Thou bringest unto me a tale 






Of visionary hours. 






Thrice welcome ! darling of the Spring 
Even yet thou art to me 






No bird, but an invisible thing, 






A voice, a mystery ; 

;■ 






The same whom in my school-boy days; 
I listened to; that Gry 






"Which made me look a thousand ways 






In bush, and tree, and sky. 






To seek thee did I often rove 






Through woods and on the green ; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love 






Still longed for, never seen. 






And I can listen to thee yetj 






Can lie upon the plain 
And listen till I do beget 






That golden time again. 






blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 






Again appears to be 

An unsubstantial, faery place ; 

That is fit home for Thee ! 






iddk 








__ 



LINES. 211 

LINES, 

COMPOSED A tEvr MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEf, ON 
REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WTE DURING A 
TOUR. JULY 13, 1798. 

'C'lYE years have past ; five summers, witli the 

length 
Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 
With a soft inland murmur.* — Once again 
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
That on a wild secluded scene impress 
Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect 
The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
The day is come when I again repose 
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, 
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 
Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms, 
Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! 
With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire 
The Hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms, 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 

♦ The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tint«m. 






gl2 WOfiDSWORTH'S tOEMS. 

Of towns and cities, I have owed to tliem 

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 

Felt in the blood and felt along the heart ; 

And passing even into my purer mind, 

With tranquil restoration :— feelings too 

Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps. 

As have no slight or trivial influence 

On that best portion of a good man's life, 

His little, nameless, unremembered acts 

Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust* 

To them I may have owed another gift, 

Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood> 

In which the burden of the mystery. 

In which the heavy and the weary weight 

Of all this unintelligible world. 

Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood, 

In which the affections gently lead us on, — 

Until) the breath of this corporeal frame 

And even the motion of our human blood 

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 

In body, and become a living soul : 

While with an eye made quiet by the power 

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 

We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft — ■ 
la darkness and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart- 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 
sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer through the woods. 
How often has my spirit turned to tbee ! 



LINES. 213 

And now, witli gleams of half-extinguished 
thought, 
With many recognitions dim and faint, 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
The picture of the mind revives again : 
While here 1 stand, not only with the sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
That in this moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope, 
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when 

first 
I came among these hills ; when like a roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams 
Wherever nature led : more like a man 
Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature then 
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 
And their glad animal movements all gone by) 
To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
What then I was. The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
Their colors and their forms, were then to me 
An appetite, a feeling and a love. 
That had no need of a remoter charm, 
By thought supplied, nor any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past. 
And all its aching joys are now no more, 
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts 
Have followed ; for such loss, I would beheve. 
Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
To look on nature, not as in the hour 



gl4 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Of tliouglitless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 

The still, sad music of humanity, 

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 

A presence that disturbs me with the joy 

Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 

Of something far more deeply interfused. 

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 

And the round ocean and the living air, 

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 

A motion and a spirit, that impels 

All thinking things, all objects of all thought. 

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 

A lover of the meadows and the -woods. 

And mountains ; and of all that we behold 

From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 

Of eye, and ear, — both what they half create,* 

And what perceive ; well pleased to recognise 

In nature and the language of the sense. 

The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 

Of all my moral being. 

Nor perchance. 
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
For thou art with me here upon the banks 
Of this fair river ; thou my dearest Friend, 
My dear, dear Friend ; and in thy voice I catch 
The language of my former heart, and read 
My former pleasures in the shooting hghts 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
May I behold in thee what I was once, 

* This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of Young's, 
the exact expression of which I do not recollect. 



LINES. 215 

My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I make. 

Knowing that Nature never did betray 

The heart that loved her ; 't is her privilege. 

Through all the years of this our life, to lead 

From joy to joy : for she can so inform 

The mind that is within us, so impress 

With quietness and beauty, and so feed 

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 

Nor greetings vphere no kindness is, nor all 

The dreary intercourse of daily life, 

Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 

Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk : 

And let the misty mountain- winds be free 

To blow against thee ; and, in after years. 

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 

Into a sober pleasure ; when thy mind 

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 

For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then, 

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me. 

And these my exhortations ? Nor, perchance-— 

If I should be where I no more can hear 

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these 

gleams 
Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 
That on the banks of this delightful, stream 
We stood together ; and that I, so long 
A worshipper of Nature, hither came 
Unwearied in that service : rather say 



216 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

With warmer love — oli ! with far deeper zeal 
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 
That after many wanderings, many years 
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliflfe. 
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake ! 

179a 



SONNET. 



COMPOSED BY THE SEA SIDE NEAR CALAIS, 
AUGUST, 1802. 

TpAIR Star of evening, Splendor of the west, 

Star of my Country !-— on the horizon's brink 
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink 
On England's bosom ; yet well pleased to rest, 
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest 
Conspicuous to the Nations, Thou, I think, 
Should'st be my Country's emblem ; and should'st 

wink, 
Bright Star ! with laughter on her banners, drest 
In thy fresh beauty. There ! that dusky spot 
Beneath thee, that is England ; there she lies. 
Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one lot, 
One life, one glory ! — I, with many a fear 
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs. 
Among men who do not love her, linger here. 



TO A LADY. 217 



TO A LADY, 

IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD WRITE HER 
A POEM UPON SOME DRAWINGS THAT SHE HAD MADE 
OF FLOWERS IN THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA. 

Tj^AIR Lady ! can I sing of flowers 

That in Madeira bloom and fade, 
I who ne'er sate within their bowers, 

Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed? 
How they in sprightly dance are worn 

By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen. 
Or holy festal pomps adorn, 

These eyes have never seen. 

Yet though to me the pencil's art 

No like remembrances can give, 
Your portraits still may reach the heart 

And there for gentle pleasure live ; 
While Fancy ranging with free scope 

Shall on some lovely Alien set 
A name with us endeared to hope. 

To peace, or fond regret. 

Still as we look with nicer care, 

Some new resemblance we may trace ; 
A Heart'' s-ease will perhaps be there, 

A Speedwell may not want its place. 
And so may we, with charmed mind 

Beholding what your skill has wrought. 
Another Star-of-Bethlehem find, 

A new Forget-me-not. 

From earth to heaven with motion fleet 

From heaven to earth our thoughts will pass, 

19 



mS WORDS W GET H'S FOEtMg'-.. 

A ffbly-thistle here we meet, ' 

And thei'e a Shepherd''s weafTter-gl'am p 

And haply some familmr name 

Shall grace the fairest, sweetest plant 

Whose presence cheers the drooping fram-e' 
Of English Emigrant. 

Crazing she feels its power feeguile 

Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier fereafe ; 

Alas I that meek, thcat tender smile- 
Is but a harbinger of death ; 

And pointing with a feeble hand 

She says, in faint words by sighs Brokenf 

Eear for me to my native land 

This precious Flower, true love's last tokem- 



FETER BELLv 

A TA3E.E. 

What 'b in a Name ? 

****** 

Brat'as -will start a Spirit as soon as Csesar !' 



TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., F. L., etc. etc. 
BIt Dear Friend, 

The Tale of Peter B€ll,wiicB I now introduce to your aotiee, and' 
to that of the Pablic^ has, ia its manuscript state, nearly survived its 
minority — for it first saw the light in the summer of 1798- During this 
long interval, pains have been taken at different times to make the pro- 
dtjetion less unworthy of a favorable reception ; or, rather, to fit it for 
filling permuncnthf a station, however humble, in the Literature of our 
country. This has, indeed, been the aim of all my endeavors in Poetry, 
which, you know, have been sufficiently laborious to prove that I deem 
the Art not lightly to be approached ; and that the attainment of excel- 
lence in it, may laudably be made the principal object of intellectual 
pursuit by any man, who, with reasona.blecoBtsideraXion of circwnstances, 
liM faith in his own impulses; 



'PETER BELL. -213 

iThePoem df Peter Bell, as the Prologue -will scow, was •eompoS'ed un- 
der a belief that the Imagination not only does not require for its exer- 
cise the intepjention of supernatural agency, but that, though such 
agency l)e excluded, the faculty may be called forth as imperiously anU 
for kindred results of pleat^ure, by incidents, within the compass of 
poetie probabilit}', in the humblest depai-tments of daily life. Since 
' that'-Prologue was written, !/oM''have«M:hibited most splendid effects ol 
■judiesous daring, in the opposite and usual course. Let this aeknow- 
-iedgmeut make it>3' peace with -the lovers of the supernatural.; and I am 
persuaded it will be admitted, that to you, as a Master in that province 
of the art, the following Tale, whether from contrast or congruifcy, is not 
an Ruappropriate offering. Accept it, then, as a public testimony of 
affectionate admiration from one with who.se name yours has been often 
coupled. (to use your own words; for e^il and for good:, and believe me to 
•be, with e?..rnest wishes that life and health may be granted you to com- 
plete the many important works in which you are engaged, and with higfe 
-respect, Most faithfully yours, 

WiLLZA-M WQKBSWO.R.TH. 

■-KYDAi MoOTra, Jpril 7, 1810. 



PROIiOG-OE. 



"O^ HERE'S something in a Sying liorse. 

There's semething: in a huo-e balloon,: 
■But through the clouds I'll never float 
Until I have a little Boat, 
For ^shape just like the erescent-moon. 

And now I have a little Boat, 

In shape a very creseent-moon : 

^East through the clouds my boat can sail,; 

'But if perchance your faith should fail, 

Look up — and you shall see me soon ! 

"The woods, my Friends, are round you roanag, 
Hocking and rearing like a sea ; 
The noise of danger 's in your ears, 
And ye have all a thousand fears 
;Both for my little Boat and me ! 











220 V; Oil DS WORTH'S POEMS 






MeanAvhile untroubled I admire 
The pointed horns of my canoe ; 
And, did not pity touch my breast, 
To see how ye are all distrest, 
Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you 1 






Away we go, my Boat and I — 
Frail man ne'er sate in such another ; 
Whether among the winds we strive. 
Or deep into the clouds we drive, 
Each is contented with the other. 






Away we go — and what care we 
For treasons, tumults, and for wars ? 
We are as calm in our delight 
As is the crescent moon so bright. 
Among the scattered stars. 






Up goes my Boat among the stars 
Through many a breathless field of light. 
Through many a long blue field of ether, 
Leavinsc ten thousand stars beneath hert 
Up goes my little Boat so bright ! 






The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull,. 
We pry among them all ; have shot 
High o'er the red-haired race of Mars,. 
Covered from top to toe with sears ; 
Such company I like it not 1 






The towns in Saturn are decayed, 

And melancholy Spectres throng them ; — 

The Pleiads, that appear to kiss 

Each other in the vast abyss, 

With joy I sail among them. 








J 



^J 


-P^'TE-R SELL. -g^ 




Swift Mercuyy resounds with mirtli-j 

Great Jove is full of stately bowers ; 

■But tltese, and all that they contain, ' 

What are they to that tiny grain, 

That -little Earth of ours ? 




Then Isack to Earth, the dear green EartTi r-'^ 

Whole ages if I here should roam, 

The world for my remarks and me 

Would not a whit the better be ; y 

i Ve left my heart at home. 




See ! there she is, the matchless Earth"! 
There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean ! 
Old Andes thrusts yoti craggy spear 
Through the grey clouds ; the Alps are hefd^ 
Like waters in coriamotien ! 




Yon tawriy slip is Libya's sands ; 

That silver thread the river Dnieper ; 

And look, where clothed in brightest greek 

Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen ; 

^e fairies, from all evil keep her ! 




And see the town where I was born ! ; 
Around those happy fields we span 
In boyish gambols ; — I was lost 
Where I have been, but on this coast 
I feel I am a man. 


' 


Never did fifty things at dnee 
Appear so lovely, never, never ;--- 
How tunefully the forests ring ! 
To hear the earth's soft murmuring 
Thus could I hang for ever ! 
19* 


rl, 





222 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

" Shame on you !" cried my little Boai^ 

*' Was ever such a homesick Loon, 

Within a living Boat to sit. 

And make no better use of it ; 

A Boat twin-sister of the crescent moon I 

Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet 
Fluttered so faint a heart before ; — 
Was it the music of the spheres 
That overpowered your mortal ears ? 
— Such din shall trouble them no more. 

These nether precincts do not lack 
Charms of their own ; then come with me '^ 
I want a comrade, and for you 
There 's nothing that I would not do ; 
Naught is there that you shall not see. 

Haste ! and above Siberian snows 
We'll sport amid the boreal morning j 
Will mingle with her lustres gliding 
Among the stars, the stars now hiding,. 
And now the stars adorning, 

I know the secrets of a land 
Where human foot did never stray ;, 
Fair is that land as evening skies 
And cool, though in the depth it lies 
Of burning Africa. 

Or we '11 into the realm of Faery,. 
Among the lovely shades of things ^ 
The shadowy forms of mountains bare. 
And streams, and bowers, and ladies falfp. 
The shades of palaces and kings ! 



PETER BELL. 223 

Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal 
Less quiet regions to explore, 
Prompt voyage shall to you reveal 
How earth and heaven are taught to feel 
The might of magic lore !" 

" My little vagrant Form of light 

My gay and beautiful Canoe, 

Well have you played your friendly part; 

As kindly take what from my heart 

Experience forces — then adieu. 

Temptation lurks among your words ; 
But, while these pleasures you 're pursuing 
Without impediment or let, 
No wonder if you quite forget 
What on the earth is doing. 

There was a time when all mankind 
Did listen with a faith sincere 
To tuneful tongues in mystery versed ; 
Then Poets fearlessly rehearsed 
The wonders of a wild career. 

Go — (but the world 's a sleepy world), 
And 't is, I fear, an age too late) 
Take with you some ambitious Youth \ 
For, restless Wanderer ! I, in truth 
Am all unfit to be your mate. 

Long have I loved what I behold, 

The night that calms, the day that cheers j 

The common growth of mother-earth 

Suffices me — her tears, her mirth. 

Her humblest mirth and tears. 



:24 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

The dragon's wing, the magic ring^ 
I shall not covet for ray dowerj 
If I along that lowly way 
With sympathetic heart may stray> 
And with a soul of power. 

These given, what more need I desire 
To stir, to soothe, or elevate ? 
What nobler marvels than the mind 
May in life's daily prospect find> 
Majr find or there create ? 

A potent wand doth Sorrow wield ; 
What spell so strong as guilty Fear ! 
Repentance is a tender Sprite ; 
If aught on earth have heavenly mighlg 
'T is lodged within her silent tear. 

But grant my wishes,— 'let us now 
Descend from this ethereal height ; 
Then take thy way, adventurous Skiff) 
More daring far than Hippogriff> 
And be thy own delight. 

To the stone-table in my garden, 
Loved haunt of many a summer hour. 
The Squire is come : his daughter Bess 
Beside him in the cool recess 
Sits blooming like a flower. 

With these are many more convened ; 
They know not I have been so far ; — 
I see them there, in number nine, 
Beneath the spreading Wyemouth-pine 1 
I see them—- there they are ! 



PETER BELL. 225 

There sits the Vicar and his Dame ; 

And there my good friend, Stephen Otter ; 

And, ere the Hght of evening fail, 

To them I must relate the Tale 

Of Peter Bell, the Potter." 

OifF flew the Boat — away she flees, 
Spurning her freight with indignation ! 
And I, as well as I was able, 
On two poor legs, toward my stone-table 
Limped on with sore vexation. 

" 0, here he is !" cried little Bess — 
She saw me at the garden door; 
" We've waited anxiously and long," 
They cried, and all around me throng. 
Full nine of them or more ! 

" Reproach me not — your fears be still- 
Be thankful we again have met! 
Resume, my Friends ! within the shade, 
Your seats, and quickly shall be paid 
The well -remembered debt." 

I spake with faltering voice, like one 
Not wholly rescued from the pale 
Of a wild dream, or worse illusion ; 
But straight, to cover my confusion. 
Began the promised Tale. 



$26 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS, 



PART FIRST. 

All by the moonlight river side, 
Groaned the poor Beast — alas ! in vain ; 
The staff was raised to loftier height. 
And the blows fell with heavier weight 
As Peter struck and struck again. 

" Hold !" cried the Squire, " against the rules 
Of common sense you 're surely sinning ; 
This leap is for us all too bold ; 
Who Peter was, let that be told. 
And start from the beginning." 

" A Potter,* Sir, he was by trade," 



Said I, becoming quite collected ; 
" And wheresoever he appeared, 
Full twenty times was Peter feared, 
For once that Peter was respected. 

He, two-and-thirty years or more 
Had been a wild and woodland rover ; 
Had heard the Atlantic surges roar 
On farthest Cornwall's rocky shore, 
And trod the cliffs of Dover. 

And he had seen Caernarvon's towers. 
And well he knew the spire of Sarum ; 
And he had been where Lincoln bell. 
Flings o'er the fen that ponderous knell — 
A far-renowned alarum ! 

* In the dialect of the North a hawker of earthenware is thus 
nated, 



PETER BELL. 227 

At Doncastei, and York, and Leeds, 
And merry Carlisle had be been ; 
And all along the Lowlands fan-, 
All through the bonny shire of Ayr, 
And far as Aberdeen, 

And he had been at Inverness ; 

And Peter, by the mountain-rills, 

Had danced his round with Highland lasses ; 

And he had lain beside his asses, 

On lofty- Cheviot Hills : 

And he had trudged through Yorkshire dales. 
Among the rocks and winding scars ; 
Where deep and low the hamlets lie 
Beneath their little patch of sky 
And little lot of stars : 

And all along the indented coast, 
Bespattered with the salt-sea foam; 
"Where'er a knot of houses lay 
On headland, or in hollow bay ; — 
Sure never man like him did roam ! 

As well might Peter, in the Fleet, 

Have been fast bound, a bep-mna: debtor ;•— 

He travelled here, he travelled there ; — 

But not the value of a hair 

Was heart or head the better. 

He roved among the vales and streams, 
In the green wood and hollow dell ; 
They were his dwellings night and day, — 
But nature ne'er could find the way. 
Into the heart of Peter Bell, 



228 WORDS WOKTH'S FOEMS. 

In vain, tlirougli every changeful year. 
Did Nature lead him as before ; 
A primrose by a river's brim 
A yellow primrose was to him, 
And it was nothing more. 

Small change it made in Peter's heart 
To see his gentle panniered train 
With more than vernal pleasure feeding, 
Where'er the tender grass was leading 
Its earliest green along the lane. 

In vain, through water, earth, and air, 
The soul of happy sound was spread, 
When Peter on some April morn. 
Beneath the broom or budding thorn, 
Made the warm earth his lazy bed. 

At noon, when, by the forest's edge 
He lay beneath the branches high, 
The soft blue sky did never melt 
Into his heart ; he never felt 
The witchery of the soft blue sky ! 

On a fair prospect some have looked 
And felt, as I have heard them say, 
As if the moving time had been 
A thing as steadfast as the scene 
On which they gazed themselves away. 

Within the breast of Peter Bell 
These silent raptures found no place; 
He was a Carl as wild and rude 
As ever hue-and-cry pursued. 
As ever ran a felon's race. 



PETERBELL. 229 

Of all that lead a lawless life, 

Of all that love their lawless lives. 

In city or in village small, 

He was the wildest far of all ; — 

He had a dozen wedded wives. 

'Naj, start not! — wedded wives — and twelve! 
But how one wife could e'er come near him, 
In simple truth I cannot tell ; 
For, be it said of Peter Bell, 
To see him was to fear him. 

Though Nature could not touch his heart 
By lovely forms, and silent weather. 
And tender sounds, yet you might see 
At once, that Peter Bell and she 
Had often been together. 

A savage wildness round him hung 
As of a dweller out of doors ; 
In his whole figiire and his mien 
A savage character \vas seen 
Of mountains and of dreary moors. 

To all the unshaped half-human thoughts 

Which solitary Nature feeds 

'Mid summer storms or winter's ice. 

Had Peter joined whatever vice 

The cruel city breeds. 

His face was keen as is the wind 
That cuts along the hawthorn-fence; 
Of courage you saw little there, 
But, in its stead, a medley air 
Of cunning and of impudence. 
20 



S30 WORDSWORTH'S POEMSv 

He had a dark and sidelong walk, 
And long and sloucbing was his gait j- 
Beneath his looks sa bare and bold. 
You might perceive, his spirit cold 
Was playing with some inward bait. 

His forehead wrinkled ^as and furred ; 
A work, one half of which was done 
By thinking of his ' tghens' and ' haws y 
And half, by knitting of his brows 
Beneath the glaring sun. 

There was a hardness in his cheek,- 
There was a hardness in his eye. 
As if the man bad fixed his face,- 
In many a solitary place. 
Against the wind and open' sky !'* 



One night (and now, my little Bess, 
We've reached at last the promised Tare);^' 
One beautiful November night, 
When the full moon was shining bright 
Upon the rapid river Swale, 

Along the river's winding banks 
Peter was travelling all alone ; — '■ 
Whether to buy or sell, or led 
By pleasure running in^ his head,. 
Ta me was never known. 



He trudged 


aloag through 


copse and brakej^ 


: He trudged along o'er hill and dale ; 


Ifor for the 


moon cared he 


a tittle. 


And for the 


stars he cared 


as little. 


And for the 


murmuring river Swalev 



:PETER BELL .2M 

lEvA, enhancing to espy a patk 
That promised to cut short the "way.^ 
As many a wiser man hath done. 
He left a trusty guide for one 
That might his steps betray. 

To a thick wood he soon is brought 
"Where cheerily his course he weaves. 
And whistling loud may yet be heard. 
Though often buried, like a bird 
Darkling, amid the bouffhs and leaves. 

But quickly Peter's mood is changed, 
And on he drives with cheeks that burm 
In downright fury and in wrath ; — 
There's little sign the treacherous path 
Will to the road return ! 

The path grows dim, and dimmer still;; 
J^ow up, now down, the Rover wends, 
With all the sail that he can carry 
Till brought to a deserted quarry — 
And there the pathway ends. 

:He paused — for shadows of strange shape,- 
Massy and black before him lay ; 
But through the dark, and through the cold,, 
And through the yawning fissures old, 
iDid Peter boldly press his way 

Hight through the quarry; — and behoM 
A scene of soft and lovely hue ! 
Where blue and grey, and tender green^ 
Together make as sweet a scene 
As ev-er human eye did view. 



232 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Beneath the clear blue sky he saw 
A little field of meadow ground ; 
But field or meadow, name it not • 
Call it of earth a small green plot,. 
With rocks encompassed round. 

The Swale flowed under the grey rocksj, 
But he flowed quiet and unseen ; — 
You need a strong and stormy gale. 
To bring the noises of the Swale 
To that green spot, so calm and green I 

And is there no one dwelling here, 
No hermit with his beads and glass ? 
And does no little cottage look 
Upon this soft and fertile nook ? 
Does no one live near this green grass ? 

Across the deep and quiet spot 
Is Peter driving through the grass — 
And now has reached the skirting trees; 
When, turning round his head, he sees 
A solitary Ass. 

" A prize !" cries Peter — but he first 
Must spy about him far and near ; 
There 's not a single house in sight, 
'No woodman's hut, no cottage light — 
Peter, you need not fear ! 

There's nothing to be seen but woods,. 
And rocks that spread a hoary gleam. 
And this one Beast, that from the bed 
Of the green meadow hangs his head 
Over the silent stream. 



PETER BELlo 333 

His head is with a halter bound ; 
The halter seizing, Peter leapt 
Upon the Creature's back, and plieS 
With ready heels his shaggy side ; 
But still th« Ass his station kept. 

Then Peter gave a sudden jerk, 
A jerk that from a dungeon-floor 
Would have pulled up an iron ring 
3But still the heavy-headed Thing 
'Stood just as he had stood before! 

'Quoth Peter, leaping from his sea.t, 
" There is some plot against me laidl^ 
Once more the little meadow-ground 
And all the hoary cliffs around 
^e cautiously surveyed;, 

All, all is silent-brocks and woods. 
All still and silent— -far and near ! 
Only the Ass, with motion dull, 
Upon the pivot ©f his skulf 
Turns round his long left ear. 

Thought Peter, What can mean all this t 
Some ugly witchcraft must be here ! 
— Onc« more the Ass, with motion dull, 
Upon the pivot of his skull 
Turned round his long left ear. 

Suspicion ripened int© dread ; 
Yet with deliberate action slow. 
His staff high-raising, in the pride 
Of skill, upon the sounding hide. 
He dealt a sturdy blow. 
20* 



234 WOEDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

The poor Ass staggered witli the shock j 
And then, as if to take his ease, 
In quiet uncomplaining mood. 
Upon the spot where he had stood, 
Dropped gently down upon his knees ? 

As gently on his side he fell ; 
And by the river's brink did lie ; 
And, while he lay like one that mournedy 
The patient Beast on Peter turned 
His shining hazel eye. 

T' was but one mild, reproachful look, 
A look more tender than severe ; 
And straight in sorrow, not in dread, 
He turned the eye-ball in his head 
Towards the smooth river deep a,nd clear. 

Upon the Beast the sapling rings ; 

His lank sides heaved, his limbs they stirred ; 

He gave a groan,^ and then another. 

Of that which went before the brother,. 

And then he gave a third. 

All by the moonlight river side — 
He gave three miserable groans ; 
And not till now hath Peter seen 
How gaunt the Creature is, — how lean,. 
And sharp his staring bones ! 

With legs stretched out, and stiff he lay :— ' 
No word of kind commiseration 
Fell at the sight from Peter's tongue ; 
With hard contempt his heart was wrung,. 
With hatred and vexation. 



PETER BELL. 235 

The meagre beast lay still as death ; 
And Peter's lips with fury quiver ; 
Quoth he, " You little mulish dog, 
1 '11 fling your carcase like a log 
Head-foremost down the river !" 

An impious oath confirmed the threat—* 
Whereat from the earth on which he lay 
To all the echoes south, and north, 
And east and west, the Ass sent forth 
A long and clamorous bray ! 

This outcry i on the heart of Peter, 
Seems like a note of joy to strike,—- 
Joy at the heart of Peter knocks ; 
But in the -echo of the rocks 
Was something Peter did not like* 

Whether to cheer his coward breast^ 
Or that he could not break the chain. 
In this serene and solemn hour, 
Twined round him by demoniac power, 
To the blind work he turned again. 

Among the rocks and winding crags ; 

Among the mountains far away ; 

Once more the Ass did lengthen out 

More ruefully a deep-drawn shout, 

The hard dry see-saw of his horrible bray ! 

What is there now in Peter's heart ! 

Or whence the might of this strange sound ? 

The moon uneasy looked and dimmer. 

The broad blue heavens appeared to glimmer. 

And the rocks staggered all around— 



S3© WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

From Peter's hand the sapling dropped ! 
Threat has he none to execute ; 
" If any one should come and see 
That I am here, they '11 think," quoth he, 
" I'm helping this poor dying brute." 

He scans the Ass from limb to limb> 
And ventures now to uplift his eyes ; 
More steady looks the moon, and clear^ 
More like themselves the rocks appear 
And touch more quiet skies. 

His scorn returns— his hate revives ; 
He stoops the Ass's neck to seize 
With malice — that again takes flight ; 
For in the pool a startling sight 
Meets him, among the inverted trees*, 

Is it the moon's distorted face ? 
The ghost-like image of a cloud ? 
Is it a gallows there portrayed? 
Is Peter of himself afraid ? 
Is it a coffin,-— or a shroud ? 

A grisly idol hewn in stone ? 
Or imp from witch's lap let fall ? 
Perhaps a ring of shining fairies ? 
Such as pursue their feared vagaries 
In sylvan bower, or haunted hall ? 

Is it a fiend that to a stake 

Of fire his desperate self is tethering t 

Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell 

In solitary ward or cell. 

Ten thousand miles from all his brethren ? 



PETER BELL. 

Never did pulse so quickly throb, 
And never heart so loudly panted ; 
He looks, he cannot choose but look ; 
Like some one reading in a book — • 
A book that is enchanted. 

Ah, vyrell-a-day for Peter Bell ! 
He will be turned to iron soon. 
Meet Statue for the court of Fear ! 
His hat is up — and every hair 
Bristles, and whitens in the moon ! 

He looks, he ponders, looks again ; 

He sees a motion — hears a groan ; 

His eyes will burst — his heart will break — 

He gives a loud and frightful shriek. 

And back he falls, as if his life were flown ! 



237 



PART SECOND. 

We left our Hero in a trance. 
Beneath the alders, near the river ; 
The Ass is by the river-side. 
And, where the feeble breezes glide. 
Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver. 

A happy respite ! but at length 
He feels the glimmering of the moon ; 
Wakes with glazed eye, and feebly sighing- 
To sink, perhaps, where he is lying. 
Into a second swoon ! 



IS. WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

He lifts his head, he sees his staff ; 

He touches — 't is to him a treasure ! 

Faint recollection seems to tell 

That he is yet where mortals dwell — 

A thought received with languid pleasure ! 

His head upon his elbow propped, 
Becoming less and less perplexed, 
Sky-ward he looks — to rock and wood — 
And then — upon the glassy flood 
His wandering eye is fixed. 

Thought he, that is the face of one 
In his last sleep securely bound ! 
So toward the stream his head he bent. 
And downward thrust his staff, intent 
The river's depth to sound. 

I^ow — like a tempest-shattered bark. 
That overwhelmed and prostrate lies, 
And in a moment to the verge 
Is lifted of a foaming surge — 
Full suddenly the Ass doth rise ! 

His staring bones all shake with joy, 
And close by Peter's side he stands-: 
While Peter o'er the river bends. 
The little Ass his neck extends, 
And fondly licks his hands. 

Such life is in the Ass's eyes, 
Such life is in his Hmbs and ears ; 
That Peter Bell, if he had been 
The veriest coward ever seen. 
Must now have thrown aside his fears. 



PETER BELL. 

The Ass looks on— and to his work 
Is Peter quietly resigned ; 
He touches here — he touches there — 
And noAV among the dead man's hair 
His sapling Peter has entwined. 

He pulls — and looks — -and pulls again ; 
And he whom the poor A.ss had lost, 
The man who had been four days dead, 
Head-foremost from the river's bed 
Uprises like a ghost ! 

And Peter draws him to dry land ; 
And through the brain of Peter pass 
Some poignant twitches, fast and faster ; 
" No doubt," quoth he, " he is the Master 
Of this poor miserable Ass !" 

The meagre Shadow that looks on — ■ 
What would he now? what is he doing? 
His sudden fit of joy is flown, — 
He on his knees hath laid him down, 
As if he were his grief renewing ; 

But no — that Peter on his back 
Must mount, he shows well as he can : 
Thought Peter then, come weal or woe, 
I'll do what he would have me do, 
In pity to this poor drowned man. 

With that resolve he boldlj^ mounts 
Upon the pleased and thankful Ass ; 
And then, without a moment's stay, 
That earnest Creature turned away, 
Leaving the body on the grass. 



240 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Intent upon his faithful watch, 
The Beast four days and nights had past ; 
A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen, 
And there the Ass four days had been, 
Nor ever once did break his fast : 

Yet firm his step, and stout his heart ; 
The mead is crossed — the quarry's mouth 
Is reached ; but there the trusty guide 
Into a thicket turns aside, 
And deftly ambles towards the south. 

When hark a burst of doleful sound ! 
And Peter honestly might say. 
The like came never to his ears, 
Though he has been, full thirty years, 
A rover — night and day ! 

'T is not a plover of the moors, 

T is not a bittern of the fen ; 

Nor can it be a barking fox. 

Nor night-bird chambered in the rocks, 

Nor wild-cat in a woody glen ! 

The Ass is startled — and stops short 
Right in the middle of the thicket ; 
- And Peter, wont to whistle loud 
Whether alone or in a crowd. 
Is silent as a silent cricket. 

What ails you now, my little Bess ? 
Well may you tremble and look grave ! 
This cry — that rings along the wood, 
This cry, that floats adown the flood. 
Comes from the entrance of a cave : 









PETER BELL. 241 






I see a blooming Wood-boy there, 
And if I had the power to say- 
How sorrowful the wanderer is, 
Your heart would be as sad as his. 
Till you had kissed his tears away ! 








Grasping a hawthorn branch in hand, 
All bright with berries ripe and red. 
Into the cavern's mouth he peeps ; 
Thence back into the moonlight creeps ; 
Whom seeks he — whom ? — the silent dead : 








His father ! — Him doth he require — 
Hun hath he sought with fruitless pains, 
Among the rocks, behind the trees ; 
Now creeping on his hands and knees, 
Now running o'er the open plains. 








And hither is he come at last, 
When he through such a day has gone, 
By this dark cave to be distrest. 
Like a poor bird — her plundered nest 
Hovering around with dolorous moan ! 








Of that intense and piei-cing cry 
The listening Ass conjectures well ; 
Wild as it is, he there can read 
Some intermingled notes that plead 
With touches irresistible. 








But Peter, when he saw the Ass 
Not only stop but turn, and change 
The cherished tenor of his pace — 
That lamentable cry to chase — 
It wrought in him conviction strange ; 
21 






_ 









242 W OR D S W OR T H' S P B MS, 

A faith that, for the dead man's sake 
And this poor slave w-ho loved him weil^^ 
Yengeance upon his head wilhfallj. 
Some visitation worse than all 
Which ever till this night befel. 

Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home^' 
Is striving stoutly as he may ; 
But, while he climbs the woody hill. 
The cry grows weak — and weaker still-;; 
And now at last it dies away. 

So with his freight the Creature turns 
Into a gloomy grove of beech, 
Along the shade with footsteps true- 
Descending slowly, till the two- 
The open moonlight reach. 

And there, along the narrow dell, 
A fair smooth pathway you discern,- 
A length of green and open road — ^ 
As if it from a fountain flowed — 
Winding a^way between the fern> 

The rocks that tower on- either side- 
Build up a wild fantastic scene ; 
Temples like those among the Hindoos, 
And mosquss, and spires, and abbey windows;. 
And castles all with ivy green ! 

And, while the Ass pursues his way^ 

Along this solitary dell. 

As pensively his steps advance 

The mosques and spires change countenanee^' 

And look at Peter Bell ! 









i 
( 

PETER BELL. 24?. 




. That unintelligible cry 




Hath left him high in preparation, — 




Convinced that he, or soon or late. 




This very night will meet his fate — 




And so he sits in expectation! 




The strenuous Animal hath clomb 




■With the green path ; and now he wends 




Where, shining like the smoothest sea. 




In undisturbed immensity 




A level plain extends. 




But whence this faintlj'-rustling sound 




By which the journeying pair are chased* 




— A withered leaf is close behind. 




Ligll't plaything for the sportive wind 




Upon that sohtary waste. 




'When Peter spied the moving thing • 




It only doubled his distress ; 




"Where there is not a bush or tree. 




'The very leaves. they follow me — ] 




-So huge hath been my wickedness 1" 




To a close lane they now are come, ; 




Wherj?, as before, the enduring Ass 




'Moves on without a moment's stop, \ 




'K'or once turns I'ound his head to crop ■ 




A bramble-leaf or blade of grass. ■' 




Between the hedges -as they go, : 




The white ..dust sleeps upon the lane,t 




And Peter, ever and anon. 




,:Back.Tlooking sees, upon a stone. 




=0r in the dust, a crimson stain. 

■1 



244 \"V O R D S W O R T H ' S POEM S. 

A stain — as of a drop of blood 

By moonlight made more faint and wan; 

Ha ! why these sinkings of despair ? 

He knows not how the blood comes there- 

And Peter is a wicked man. 

At length he spies a bleeding wound. 
Where he had struck the Ass's head ; 
He sees the blood, knows what it is, — 
A glimpse of sudden joy was his. 
Bat then it quickly fied ; 

Of him whom sudden death had seized 
He thought, — of tbee, faithful Ass! 
And once again those ghastly pains, 
Shoot to and fro through heart and reins. 
And through the brain like lightning pass. 



PART THIRD. 



I've heard of one, a gentle Soul, 
Thouffh 2.iven to sadness and to ffloom. 
And for the fact will vouch, — one night 
It chanced that by a taper's light 
This man was reading in his room ; 

Bending, as you or I might bend 
At night o'er any pious book, 
When sudden blackness overspread 
The snow-while page on which he read. 
And made the sfood man round him look» 



■i.-.!vi,tr.^ j-^iVijha-^i-^r^^ - -fr ■-'--^^-'■•''-■'-'■■^ •* '^ ■'•f* ■ ■'^■^"^ ^' --rf^--^ " 



PE'TiSR Bte'LL. 

The dliam'ber watls were dark all round,-* 
And to his book he tur'ned again ; 
—The light had left the lonely taper, 
And formed itself upon the paper 
'Into iarge 'letters' — ^l^right and plain ! 

The godly hooTi ■vvas in his hand^^ 
And, oti tlie pa.ge, more black than eoai, 
Appeared, set forth in strange array, 
A imrd — which to his dying day 
Perplexed the good man's gentle soul. 

The ghfostly word, thus plainly seen, 
'Did never fi-om his lips depart ; 
But he hath said, poor gentle wight I 
it brought full many a sin to light 
■Out of tbe bottom of litis heaft. 

Dread Spirits ! to confoun<i the riaeek 
Why wander from your course so far, 
Oisorderilig color, form, and stature ! 
■ — Let good tnen feel the soul of natu?r©, 
And see things as they are. 

Yet, potent Spirits ! well 1 kndxr, 
How ye, that play with soul and sense^ 
Are not unused to trouble friends 
Qi goodness, for most gl-acious ends-^ 
And this I spieak in reverence ! 

But miglit I give advice to you, 
Whom in my fear 1 love so well ; 
ii'rom men of pensive virtue go. 
Oread Beings! and your empire shu# 
<0n hearts like that of Peter Bell. 
21* 





246 WORDSWORTH'S POS MS. 


f 




Your presence often have I felt, 






In darkness and the stormy night ; 






And, with like force, if need there be, 


■ 




Ye can put forth your agency 






When earth is calm, and heaven is bright.-. 


:' 




Then, coming from the wayward world. 




That powerful world in wtiich ye dwell. 


' 




Come, Spirits of the Mind ! and try 






To-night, beneath the moonlight sky. 






What may be done with Peter Bell ! 


[ 




— 0, would that some more skilful voice- 


[ 




My further labor might prevent ! 






Kind Listeners, that around me sit,. 


■ 




I feel that I am all unfit 






For such high argument. 


■ 




I 've played, I 've dan'ced, with my narration j- 


: 




I loitered long ere I began: 


■ 




Ye waited then on my good pleasure ; 


[ 




Pour out indulgence still, in measure 


;" 




As liberal as ye can ! 


i 




Our Travellers, ye remember well,- 


\ 




Are thridding a sequestered lane ; 


I 




And Peter many tricks is trying,. 






And many anodynes applying, 






To ease his con&oience of its pain„ 


I 




By this his heart is lighter far; 






And, finding that he can account' 






So snugly for that crhnson stain, 


: 




His evil spirit up again 


' 




Does like an empty bucket mounts 









■' i 






PETER BELL. 247 










And Peter is a deep logician 

Who hath no lack of wit mercurial 

" Blood drops — leaves rustle — yet," quoth he, 

" This poor man never, but for me. 

Could have had Christian burial. 




i 






And, say the best you can, 't is plain^ 
That here has been some wicked dealing ; 
No douht the devil in me wrought ; 
I 'm not the man who could have thought 
An Ass like this was worth the stealing !" 




1 






So from his pocket Peter takes 
His shining horn tobacco-box ; 
And, in a light and careless way, 
As men who with their purpose play, 
Upon the lid he knocks. 










Let them whose voice can stop the clouds^ 
Whose cunning eye can see the wind, 
Tell to the curious world the cause 
Why, making here a sudden pause. 
The Ass turned round his head, and grinned 




, 






Appalling process ! I have marked 
The like on heath, in lonely wood ; 
And, verily, have seldom met 
A spectacle more hideous — yet 
It suited Peter's present mood. 










And, grinning in his turn, his teeth 
He in jocose defiance showed — 
When, to upset his spiteful mirth, 
A murmur, pent within the earth, 
In the dead earth beneath the road^ 




! j 


_ 











24S WORDSWORTH*S POEMS. 

Rolled audibly! it swept along, 
A muffled noise — -a rumbling sound !-^ 
'T tvas by a troop of miners made, 
Plying with gunpowder their trade, 
Some twenty fathoms underground. 

Small cause of dire effect ! for, surely, 
If ever mortal, King or Cotter, 
Believed that earth was charged to quake 
And yawn for his unworthy sake, 
'T was Peter Bell the Potter. 

But, as an oak in breathless air 

Will stand though to the centre hewn ; 

Or as the weakest things, if frost 

Have stiffened them, maintain their post ; 

So he, beneath the gazing moon ! — ■ 

The Beast bestriding thus, he reached 
A spot where, in a sheltering cove, 
A little chapel stands alone. 
With greenest ivy overgrown 
And tufted with an ivy grove ; 

Dying insensibly away 
From human thoughts and purposes. 
It seemed — wall, window, roof, and tower- 
To bow to some transforming power. 
And blend with the surrounding trees. 

As ruinous a place it was, 
Thought Peter, in the shire of Fife 
That served my turn, when following still 
From land to land a reckless will 
I married my sixth wife ! 



FETBRBELL. 249 

The unheeding Ass moves slowly on, 
And now is passing by an inn 
Brim-full of a carousing crew, 
That make, with curses not a few. 
An uproar and a drunken din. 

I cannot well express the thoughts 
Which Peter in those noises found ; — ■ 
A stifling power compressed his frame. 
While as a swimming darkness came 
Over that dull and dreary sound. 

For well did Peter know the sound ; 
The language of those drunken joys 
To him, a jovial soul, I ween, 
But a few hours ago, had been 
A gladsome and a welcome noise. 

Noio, turned adrift into the past. 
He finds no solace in his course ; 
Like planet-stricken men of yore. 
He trembles, smitten to the core 
By strong compunction and remorse. 

But, more than all, his heart is stung 
To think of one, almost a child ; 
A sweet and playful Highland girl. 
As light and beauteous as a squirrel. 
As beauteous and as wild ! 

Her dwelling was a lonely house, 
A cottage in a heathy dell ; 
And she put on her gown of green. 
And left her mother at sixteen. 
And followed Peter Bell. 



250 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

But many good and pious thoughts 

Had she ; and, in the kirk to pray, 

Two long Scotch miles, through rain or snow, 

To kirk she had been used to go, 

Twice every Sabbath-day. 

And, when she followed Peter Bell, 
It was to lead an honest life ; 
For he, with tongue not used to falter. 
Had pledged his troth before the altar 
To love her as his wedded wife. 

A mother's hope is hers ; — but soon 
She drooped and pined like one forlorn 
From Scripture she a name did borrow ; 
Benoni, or the child of sorrow, 
She called her babe unborn. 

For she had learned how Peter lived, 
And took it in most grievous part ; 
She to the very bone was woi'n. 
And, ere that little child was born, 
Died of a broken heart. 

And now the Spirits of the Mind 
Are busy with poor Peter Bell ; 
Upon the rights of visual sense 
Usurping, with a prevalence 
More terrible than magie spell. 

Close by a brake of flowering furze 
(Above it shivering aspens play) 
He sees an unsubstantial creature, 
His very self in form and feature. 
Not four yards from the broad highway ; 



PETER BELL. 25j 

And stretched beneath the furze he sees 
The Highland ffh-l — it is no other ; 
And hears her crying as she cried, 
The very moment that she died, 
" My mother ! oh my mother !" 

The sweat pours down from Peter's face. 
So a:rievous is his heart's contrition ; 
With agony his eye-balls ache 
While he beholds by the furze-brake 
This miserable vision ! 

Calm is the well- deserving brute, 
His peace hath no offence betrayed ; 
But now, while down that slope he wends, 
A voice to Peter's ear ascends, 
Resounding from the woody glade : 

The voice, though clamorous as a horn 

Re-echoed by a naked rock. 

Comes from that tabernacle — List ! 

Within, a fervent Methodist 

Is preaching to no heedless flock ! 

*•' Repent ! repent !" he cries aloud, 
" While yet ye may find mercy ; — strive 
To love the Lord with all your might; 
Turn to him, seek him day and night, 
And save your souls alive ! 

Repent ! repent ! though ye have gone, 
Through paths of wickedness and woe, 
After the Babylonian harlot ; 
And, though your sins be red as scarlet. 
They shall be white as snow !" 



252 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Even as he passed the door, these words 
Did plainly come to Peter's ears ; 
And thej'- such joyful tidings were. 
The joy was more than he could bear! — 
He melted into tears. 

Sweet tears of hope and tenderness 
And fast they fell, a plenteous shower ! 
His nerves, his sinews seemed to melt ; 
Through all his iron frame was felt 
A gentle, a relaxing power. 

Each fibre of his frame was weak ; 
Weak was the animal within ; 
But, in its helplessness, grew mild 
And gentle as an infant child, 
An infant that has known no sin. 

'T is said, meek Beast ! that, through Heaven's 

grace, 
He not unmoved did notice now 
The cross upon thy shoulder scored, 
For lasting impress, by the Lord 
To whom all human-kind shall bow ; 

Memorial of his touch — that day 
When Jesus humbly deigned to rides 
Entering the proud Jerusalem, 
By an immeasurable stream 
Of shouting people deified! 

Meanwhile the persevering Ass, 
Turned towards a gate that hung in view 
Across a shady lane ; his chest 
Against the yielding gate he pressed 
And quietly passed through. 



T°~ 


FETERBELL. 253 






And up the stony lane he goes ; 
No ghost more softly ever trod ; 






Among the stones and pebbles, he 






Set down his hoofs inaudibly, 






As if with felt his hoofs were shod. 






Along the lane the trusty Ass 






Went twice two hundred yards or more. 






And no one could have guessed his aim,— 






Till to a lonely house he came, 






And stopped beside the door. 






^Thought Peter, 't is the poor man's home I 
He listens — not a sound is heard 






Save from the trickling household rill ; 
But stepping o'er the cottage-sill, 
Forthwith a little Girl appeared. 

She to the Meeting-house was bound 
In hopes some tidings there to gather : 
No glimpse it is, no doubtful gleam ; 
She saw — and uttered with a scream, 
" My father ! here's my father !" 

The very word was plainly heard. 
Heard plainly by the wretched mother—- 
Her joy was like a deep aflPright : 
And forth she rushed into the light, 
And saw it was another ! 

And, instantly, upon the earth. 
Beneath the full moon shining bright. 






Close to the Ass's feet she fell ; 






At the same moment Peter Bell 






Dismounts in most unhappy plight. 






22 




— 







SS4 W OB D'S W O R T H ' S F O E M S v 

its lie beheld the Woman lie 
Breathless and motionless, the mind 
Of Peter sadly was confused ; 
But, though to such demands unused^ 
And helpless almost as the blind. 

He raised her up ; and, while he held 
Her body propped against his Icnee, 
The^ Woman waked — ^and when she spied" 
The poor Ass standing by her side^ 
She moaned most bitterly. 

*' Qh ! God be praised T-^my heart % at ease- 
For he is dead — I know it well !" 
-^At this she wept a bitter flood ; 
And, in the best way that he coultf^ 
His tale did Peter telk 

He trembles^— he is pale as death f 
His voice is weak with pertm"bation ? 
He turns aside his head, he pauses ;; 
Poor Peter from a thousand causesy 
is crippled sore in his narration; 

At length she learned how he espied 
The Ass in that small meadow-ground j 
And that her Husband now lay dead^ 
Beside that luckless river's bed 
In which he had been drowned. 

A piercing, look the Widow cast 
Upon the Beast that near her stands j 
She sees 't is he, tha,t 't is the same ; 
She calls the poor Ass by his name, 
And wrings and wrings her hands. 



J- is T id K BEL L. 255 

'*' O wrettfhed loss — untimely stroke.! 
If he had died upon his bed ! 
•He knew not one forewarning pain^ 
He never will come home again — 
ils d«ad, 'for ever dead!" 

iBeside the Woman Peter stands,; 
His heart is opening more and more:; 
A holy sense pervades liis mind.; 
He feels what he for human kind 
Had never ielt before. 

At length, by Peter's arm sustained, 
The Woman rises from the ground — 
•*^0h, mercy! something must be done, 
Mj little Hachel, you must run, — 
'Some willing neighbor must be found. 

Make haste — rmy little Rachel — do, 
The first you meet with — bid him come, 
Ask him to lend his horse to-night. 
And this good Man, whom Heaven reqmte. 
Will help to bring the body home." 

Away goes Rachel weeping loud ; — 
An Infant, waked by her distress. 
Makes in the house a piteous cry ; 
And Peter hears the Mother sigh, 
"Seven ar« they, and all fatherless]" 

And now is Peter taught to feel 
That man's heart is a holy thing ; 
And Nature through a world of death, 
Sr«athes into him a second breath. 
More searching than the breath of spring. 







— 




256 WOKDSWORTH'S POEMS. 






Upon a stone the Woman sits 






In agony of silent grief — 






From his own thoughts did Peter start ; 






He longs to press her to his heart. 






From love that cannot find relief. 






But roused, as if through every limb 






Had past a sudden shock of dread. 






The Mother o'er the threshold flies. 






And up the cottage stairs she hies. 






And on the pillow lays her burning head. 






And Peter turns his steps aside 






Into a shade of darksome trees, 






Where he sits down, he knows not hovy. 






With his hands pressed against his broWj, 






His elbows on his tremulous knees. 






There, self-involved, does Peter sit. 






; Until no sign of life he makes, 






f As if his mind were sinking deep 






; Through years that have been long asleep ! 






The trance is passed away — he wakes ;. 






He lifts his head — and sees the Ass 






Yet standing in the clear moonshine ; 






" When shall I be as good as thou? 






Oh ! would, poor beast, that I had now 






A heart but half as good as thine !" 






But He — who deviously hath sought 






His Father through the lonesome woods. 






Hath sought, proclaiming to the ear 






Of night his grief and sorrowful fear — 






He comes, escaped from fields and floods , — 


r 




._ 1 



ifMMftWwiitk^ftk-t 



•f'ET'ER BEXL. 

^Witli %easy pace is drawing nigh ; 
'He sees the Ass-^aad nothing living 
'Had ever such a fit of Jo^y 
As hath this little orphan Boy, 
^or be 'ha^ -no inisgitiHg'! 

^Forth'to th'g gentle Ass he springs, 
Afld up about his neck he climbs 
In le>^ving words hetailks to him. 
He kisses, kisses face and iimb,^^ 
He -kisses him a thousand times! 

This Peter sees, while in the shadfe 
He stood beside the cottage door ; 
And Peter Bell, the ruffian wild. 
Sobs loud, h« sobs even like a chili, 
"*' Oh ! God, I can endure no more !'* 

--^-ISere ends tny Tale : for in a trice 
Arrived a neighbor with his horse ; 
Peter went forth with liim straightwa;y5 
And with due care, ere break of day. 
Together they brought back the Col-se. 

And many years did this poor Ass, 
Whom once it was my luct to see 
Cropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane, 
Help by his labor to maintain 
The Widow and her family. 

And Peter Bell, who till that night 
Had been the wildest of his clan, 
S'orsook his crimes, renounced his folly* 
And, after ten months' melancholy, 
Became a good and honest man, 
22* 



258 WORDSWORTH'S POEMSv 

SONNET. 

OCTOBER, 1S03-. 

/~^NE might believe that natural miseries 

Had blasted France, and made of it a land 
Unfit for men ; and that in one great *band 
Her sons were bursting fortli, to dwell at ease. 
But 't is a chosen soil, where sun and breeze 
Shed gentle favors : rural works are there, 
And ordinary business without care ; 
Spot rich in all things that can soothe and please F 
How piteous then that there should be such deartti* 
Of knowledge ; that whole m)'riads should unite 
To work against themselves such fell despite : 
Should come in phrensj' and in drunken mirth, 
Impatient to put out the only light 
Of Liberty that yet remains on earth. 



TO THE SONS OF BURNS, 

AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR FATHER'. 

" The Poet's grave is in a corner of the churchyard. "We looked at if 
with melancholy and painful reflectionSj repeating to each other 
his own verses — 

" ' la there a man whose judgment clear,' " &c. 

Extract from the Journal of my FeUow-traveller. 

'II/IID crowded obelisks and urns 

I sought the untimely grave of Burns j 
Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourris 

With sorrow true ; 
And more would grieve, but that it ivLvm- 

Trembling to you I 



TOTHBSONSOFBURNS. 259 

Through twilight shades of good and ill 

Ye now are panting up life's hill, 

And more than common strength and sMll 

Must ye display ; 
If ye would give the better will 

Its lawful sway. 

Hath Nature strung your nerves to heat 
Intemperance with less harm, beware ! 
But if the Poet's wit ye share, 

Like him can speed 
The social hour— of tenfold care 

There will be need. 

For honest men delight will take 
To spare your faihngs for his sake, 
Will flatter you, — and fool and rake 

Your steps pursue ; 
And of your Father's name will make 

A snare for you. 

Far from their noisy haunts retire 
And add your voices to the quire 
That sanctify the cottage fire 

With service meet ; 
There seek the genius of your Sire, 

His spirit greet ! 

Or where, 'mid "lonely heights and hows,** 
He paid to Nature tuneful vows ; 
Or wiped his honorable brows 

Bedewed with toil, 
While reapers strove, or busy ploughs 

Upturned the soil ; 




260 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

His judgment with benignant ray 
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way ; 
But ne'er to a seductive lay 

Let faith be given ; 
Nor deem that " light which leads astray, 

Is light from Heaven." 

Let no mean hope your souls enslave ; 
Be independent, generous, brave ; 
Your Father such example gave, 

And such revere ; 
But bei'adraonished by his grave. 

And think, and fear I 



LINES 



Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the Lake of 
Esthwaite, on a desolate part of the shore, commanding a beaa- 
tlful prospect. 

"VTAY, Traveller ! rest. This lonely Yew-tree 

stands 
Far from all human dwelling : what if here 
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb ? 
What if the bee love not these barren boughs ? 
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, 
That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind 
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 

" — — Who be was 

That piled these stones and with the mossy sod 
First covered, and here taught this aged Tree 
With its dark arms to form a circling bower, 
I well remember. — He was one who owned 
No common soul. In youth by science nursed, 



LINES. 26r 

And led ty nature into a wild scene 

Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 

A favored Being, knowing no desire 

Which genius did not hallow ; 'gainst the taint 

Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, 

And scorn, — against all enemies prepared, 

All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, 

Owed him no service ; wherefore he at once 

With indignation turned himself away. 

And with the food of pride sustained his soul 

In solitude. — Stranger ! these gloomy boughs 

Had charms for him ; and here he loved to sit, 

His only visitants a straggling sheep. 

The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper : 

And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath, 

And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, 

Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour 

A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here 

An emblem of his own unfruitful life : 

And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze 

On the more distant scene, — how lovely 't is 

Thou seest, — and he would gaze till it became 

Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 

The beauty, still more beauteous ! Nor, that time, 

When nature had subdued him to herself. 

Would he forget those Beings to whose minds 

Warm from the labors of benevolence, 

The world, and human life, appeared a scene 

Of kindred loveliness : then he would sigh. 

Inly disturbed, to think that others felt 

What he must never feel : and so, lost man ! 

On visionary views would fancy feed, 

Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale 

He died, — this seat his only monument. 



262 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS'. 

If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms 
Of young imagination have kept pure. 
Stranger ! henceforth be warned ; and know that 

pride, 
Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, 
Is littleness ; that he who feels contempt 
For any living thing, hath faculties 
Which he has never used ; that thought with him 
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 
Is ever on himself doth look on one, 
The least of Nature's works, one who might move 
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds 
Unlawful ever. be wiser. Thou ! 
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love ; 
True dignity abides with him alone 
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought. 
Can still suspect, and still revere himself, 
In lowliness of heart. 

179S. 



ROB ROY'S GRAVE. 

The history of Rob Roy is sufficiently known : his grave is near the 
head of Loch Ketterine, in one of those small pinfold-like Burial- 
grounds, of neglected and desolate appearance, ■which the traveller 
meets with in the Highlands of Scotland. 

A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood, 

The English ballad-singer's joy ! 
And Scotland has a thief as good, 
An outlaw of as daring mood ; 
She has her brave Rob Ror ! 
Then clear the weeds from off his Grave, 
And let us chant a passing stave, 
In honor of that Hero brave ! 



BOB KOY'S GRAVE. 263 

Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart. 
And wondrous length and strength of arm : 
Nor craved he more to quell his foes^ 
Or keep his friends from harm. 

Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave ; 
Forgive me if the phrase be strong ;— 
A Poet worthy of Rob Roy 
Must scorn a timid song. 

Say, then, that he was wise as brave ; 
As wise in thought as bold in deed : 
For in the principles of things 
He sought his moral creed. 

Said generous Rob, " What need of books ? 
Burn all the statutes and their shelves ; 
They stir us up against our kind ; 
And worse, against ourselves. 

We have a passion — make a law, 
Too false to guide us or control ! 
And for the law itself we fight 
In bitterness of soul. 

And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose 
Distinctions that are plain and few : 
These find I graven on my heart : 
That tells me what to do. 

The creatures see of flood and field, 
And those that travel on the wind ! 
With them no strife can last ; they live 
In peace, and peace of mind. 



2^ WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

For why ? — because the good old rule 
Sufficeth them, the simple plan, 
That they should take, who have the power, 
And they should keep who can. 

A lesson that is quickly learned, 
A signal this which all can see ! 
Thus nothing here provokes the strong 
To wanton cruelty. 

All freakishness of mind is checked ; 
He tamed, who foolishly aspires ; 
While to the measure of his might 
Each fashions his desires. 

All kinds and creatures stand and fall 
By strength of prowess or of >vit: 
'T is God's appointment who must sway, 
And who is to submit. 

Since, then, the rule of right is plain. 
And longest life is but a day ; 
To have my ends, maintain my rights, 
I'll take the shortest way." 

And thus among these rocks he lived. 
Through summer heat and winter snow: 
The Eagle, he was lord above. 
And Rob was lord below. 

So was it — would at least have been 
But through untowardness of fate ; 
For Polity was then too strong — 
He came an age too late ; 



/ 



aOB ROY'S GRAVE. SSo 

Or shall we say an age too soon ? 
For, were the bold man living now. 
How might he flourish in his pride, 
With buds on every bough 1 

Then rents and factors, rights of chase, 
Sheriflfs, and lairds and their domains. 
Would all have seemed but paltry things, 
Not worth a moment's pains. 

Rob Roy had never lingered here, 
To these few meagre Vales confined ; 
But thought how wide the world, the times 
How fairly to his mind ! 

And to his Sword he would have said, 
" Do thou my sovereign will enact 
From land to land through half the earth S 
Judge thou of law and fact ! 

'T is fit that we should do our part. 
Becoming, that mankind should learn 
That we are not to be surpassed 
In fatherly concern. 

Of old things all are over old. 
Of good things none are good enough : — 
We '11 show that we can help to frame 
A world of other stuff. 

I, too, will have my kings that take 
From me the sign of life and death : 
Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds, 
Obedient to my breath." 
23 



266 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS' 

And, if the word had been fulfilled, 
As might have been, then, thought of joy I 
France would have had her present Boast,. 
And we our own Rob Roy ! 

Oh ! say not so ; compare them not ; 
I would not wrong thee. Champion brave I 
Would wrong thee nowhere ; least of all 
Here standing by thy grave. 

For Thou, although with some wild thoughtsi>. 
Wild Chieftain, of a savage Clan ! 
Hadst this to boast of ; thou didst love 
The liberty of man. 

And had it been thy lot to live 
With us who now behold the light. 
Thou wouldst have nobly stirred thyself,. 
And battled for the Right. 

For thou wert still the poor man's stay. 
The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand j 
And all the oppressed, who wanted strength^ 
Had thine at their command.^ 

Bear witness many a pensive sigh. 
Of thoughtful Herdsman when he stray& 
Alone upon Loch Veol's heights. 
And by Loch Lomond's braes ! 

And far and near, through vale and hill. 
Are faces that attest the same ; 
The proud heart flashing through the eyes^ 
At sound of Rob Roy's name. 



A P GET'S EPITAPH, 367 



SONNET- 

A LAS'! what boots the long laborious quest 
Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill;; 
Or pains abstruse — rto elevate the will, 
And lead us on to that transcendent rest 
Where every passion. shall the sway attest 
Of Reason, seated on her sovereign liill,,; 
What is it but a vain and curious skill, 
If sapient Germany must lie deprest, 
Beneath the brutal sword ? — Her haughty Schools 
Shall blush ; and may not we with sorrow say, 
A few strong instincts and a few plain rules, 
Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought 
More for mankind at this unhappy day 
Than all the pride of IntelleGt and thought 1 



A POET'S EPITAPH. 



A 



HT thou a Statist, in the van 
Of public conflicts trained and Tjreclf 
— First learn to love one living man ; 
'TTien may'st thou think upon the dead. 

A Lawyer art thou? — draw not nigh J 
Cro, carry to some fitter place 
"The keenness of that practised eye. 
The hardness of that sallow face. 

Art tliou a man of purple cheer? 
A. rosy Man, right plump to see ? 
Approach; yet, Doctor, not too neai;, 
trhis grave no cushion is for thee. 









268 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 






Or art thou one of gallant pride, 






A Soldier and no man of chaff? 






Welcome ! — but lay thy sword aside^ 






And lean upon a peasant's staff. 






Physician art thou ? one, all eyes^ 






Philosopher ! a fingering slave, 






One that would peep and botanize 






Upon his mother's grave ? 






Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece^ 






turn aside, — and take, I pray 






That he alone may rest in peace. 






Thy ever-dwindhng soul away 1 






A Moralist perchance appears ; 






Led, Heaven knows how ! to this poor sod ; 






And he has neither eyes nor ears ; 






'. Himself his world, and his own God ; 






One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling 






Nor form, nor feeling, great or small ; 






A reasoning self-sufficing thing, 






An intellectual All-in-all ! 






Shut close the door ; press down the latch j 






Sleep in thy intellectual crust ; 






; Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch 






Near this unprofitable dust. 






But who is He, with modest looks. 






And clad in homely russet-brown ? 






He murmurs near the running brooks 






A music sweeter than their own. 






^ . —...., , .™™ . . — 


^ 



t i 



'He is retired as noontide dew, 
"Or fountain in a noon-day grove ; 
And you must love Mm, ere to yoti 
fie will seem worthy of your love. 

The outward sh6ws of slty and eartX 
■Of hill and valley, he has viewed-^ 
And impulses of deeper birth 
Have come to him in solitude, 

in common things that round us lie 
Borne random truths he can impart,-^ 
The harvest of a <juiet eye 
That hroods and sleeps on his ovm lieai^ 

But Tie^s weat ; both Man -and Boy, 
Hath been an idler in the land ; 
C!ont«nted if he might enjoy 
The things which others understand. 

— Xiame hither in thy hour of strength; 
'Come, weak as is a breating wavel 
Here stretch thy body at full length; 
Or build thy house upon this ^rave. 



i'm. 



ELEGIAC STANZAS. 

"The IfltneHted Yontb whose nntiaiely death gave oceasiCn to rties« 
elegiac verses, was Frederick William Goddal^, from Boston, in Notth 
America. He was in his twentieth year, and had resided for some time 
with a clergyman in the neighhorhood of Geneva for the completion of 
tis education. Accompanied by a fellow-pupil-, a native of Scotland, he 
tad just set out on a Swiss tour, when it was his misfortune to fall in 
With a flriend of mine who was hastening to join our party. The travel- 
Jers, after spending a day together on the road from Berne and at Soleure, 
took leave oi each other at night, the young men having intended to 
proceed directlj' to Zurich. But early in the morning my friend founi 
23* 



270 WOEDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

his new acquaintances, who were informed of the object of his. Jonmey, 
ftnd the friends he was in pursuit of, equipped to accompany him. Wer 
met at Lucerne the succeeding everjing, and Mr. G. and bis fellow-stU' 
dent became in consequence our travelliag companions for a couple of 
days. We ascended the Righi together; and after contemplating the 
sunrise from that noble mountain, we separated at an hour and- oa a spot 
well suited to the parting of those who were to meet no more. Our party 
descended through the valley of our Lady of the Snow, and our late com- 
panions, to Art. We bad hoped to meet in a few weeks at Geneva; but ob 
the third succeeding day (on the 21st of August) Mr. Goddard perishedy 
being overset in a boat while crossing the lake of Zurich. His com- 
panion saved himself by swimming, and was hospitably received in the 
mansion of a Swiss gentleman (M. Keller) situated on the eastern coast 
of the lake. The corpse of poor Goddard was cast ashore on the estate 
of the same gentleman, who generously performed all the rites of hospi- 
tality which could be rendered to the dead as well as to the living. He 
caused a handsome mural monument to be erected in the church of 
Kusuaoht, which records the premature fate of the young American, anol 
on the shores too of the lake the traveller may read an inseriptioB poiat- 
ing out the spot where the body was deposited by the waves. 

T ULLED by the saund of pastoral bells, 
Rude Nature's Pilgrims did we go, 
From the dread summit of the Queen* 
Of mountains, through a deep ravine. 
Where, in her holy chapel dwells 
" Our Lady of the Snow." 

The sky was blue, the air was miM ; 

Free were the streams and green the bowers j 

As if, to rough assaults unknown. 

The genial spot had ever shown 

A countenance that as sweetly smiled — ■ 

The face of summer- hours. 

And we were gay, our hearts at ease j 
With pleasure dancing through the fram«f 
We journeyed ; all we knew of care^ — 
Our path that straggled here and there j 
Of trouble — but the fluttering breeze; 
Of Winter — but a name. 

* Mount Righi — Regina MoBtiant. 



ELEGIAC STANZAS. 271. 

If foresight could have rent the veil 
Of three short days— but hush — no morel 
Calm is the grave, and calmer none 
Than that to which thy cares are gone, 
Thou Victim of the stormy gale ; 
Asleep on Zurich's shore ! 

Oh GoDDARD ! what art thou ?— a name— 
A sunbeam followed by a shade ! 
Nor more, for aught that time supplies, 
The great, the experienced, and the wise : 
Too much from this frail earth we claim, 
And therefore are betrayed. 

We met, while festive mirth ran wild. 
Where, from a deep lake's mighty urn, 
Forth slips, like an enfranchised slave, 
A sea-green river, proud to lave, 
With current swift and undefiled, 
The towers of old Lucerne. 

We parted upon solemn ground 
Far-lifted towards the unfading sky ; 
But all our thoughts were then of Earth, 
That gives to common pleasures birth ; 
And nothing in our hearts we found 
That prompted even a sigh. 

Fetch, sympathizing Powers of air, 
Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands. 
Herbs moistened by Virginian dew, 
A most untimely grave to strew. 
Whose turf may never know the care 
Of kindred human hands I 



272 WDRDSWOETH'S POEMS. 

Beloved by every gentle Muse 

He left his Transatlantic home ! 

Europe, a realized romance, 

Had opened on his eager glance ; 

What present bliss ! — what golden views ! 

What stores for years to come ! 

Though lodged within no vigorous frame, 
His soul her daily tasks renewed, 
Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings 
High poised — or as the wren that sings 
In shady places, to proclaim 
Her modest gratitude. 

Not vain is sadly-uttered praise ; 
The words of truth's memorial vow. 
Are sweet as morning fragrance shed 
From flowers 'mid Goldau's ruins bred ; 
As evening's fondly lingering rays, 
On RiGHi's silent brow. 

Lamented Youth ! to thy cold clay 
Fit obsequies the Stranger paid ; 
And piety shall guard the Stone 
Which hath not left the spot unknown 
Where the wild waves resign their prey — 
And that which marks thy bed. 

And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee, 
Lost Youth ! a solitary Mother ; 
This tribute from a casual Friend 
A not unwelcome aid may lend. 
To feed the tender luxury, 
The rising pang to smother." * 

♦ The persuasion here expressed was not groundless. The first human 
eonsolation that the afflicted Moth/.r felt was derived from the tribute to 
ber son's memory, a fact which the author learned, at his own residence, 
from her Daughter, who visited Europe some years afterwards. Goldau is 
one of the villages desolated by the fall of part of the Mountain Roasberg. 



THE FAKMEK OF TILSBURY. 273 



SONNET. 

/^H what a wreck! how changed in mien and 

speech ! 
Yet — though dread Powers, that work in mysteiy, 

spin 
Entanglings of the braia ; though shadows stretch 
O'er the chilled heart — reflect ; far, far within 
Hers is a holy Being, freed from Sin. 
She is not what she seems, a forlorn wretch, 
But delegated Spirits comfort fetch 
To Her from heights that Reason may not win. 
Like Children, She is privileged to hold 
Divine communion ; both to live and move, 
Whate'er to shallow Faith their ways unfold, 
Inly illumined by Heaven's pitying love ; 
Love pitying innocence not long to last. 
In them — in Her our sins and sorrows past. 



THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE. 

'T^IS not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined. 

The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind. 
And the small critic wielding his delicate pen, 
That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men. 

He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town ; 
His staff is a sceptre — his grey hairs a crown ; 
And his bright eyes look brighter set off by the 

streak 
Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek. 



274 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn, — 'mid the 

joy 

Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy ; 
That countenance there fashioned, which, spite of a 

stain 
That his life hath received, to the last will remain. 

A Farmer he was ; and his house far and near 
Was the boast of the country for excellent cheer : 
How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale 
Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild 
ale! 

Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin, 

His fields seemed to know what their Master was 

doing ; 
And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea, 
All caught the infection — as generous as he. 

Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl, — 
The fields better suited the ease of his soul : 
He strayed through the fields hke an indolent wight. 
The quiet of Nature was Adam's delight. 

For Adam was simple in thought ; and the poor, 
Familiar with him, made an inn of his door ; 
He gave them the best that he had ; or, to say 
What less may mislead you, they took it away. 

Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm : 
The Genius of plenty preserved him from harm : 
At length, what to most is a season of sorrow. 
His means are run out, — he must beg, or must 
borrow. 



THE FARMER OF TILSBURY. 



275 



To the neighbors he went, — all were free with their 

money ; 
For his hive had so long been replenished with honey, 
That they dreamt not of- dearth ; — He continued his 

rounds, 
Knocked here — and knocked there, pounds still 

adding to pounds. 

He paid what he could with his ill-gotten pelf. 
And something, it might be, reserved for himself: 
Then (what is too true) without hinting a word. 
Turned his back on the country — and oflf like a bird. 

You lift up your eyes ! — but I guess that you frame 
A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame ; 
In him it was scarcely a business of art. 
For this he did all in the ease of his heart. 

To London — a sad emigration I ween — 

With his grey hairs he went from the brook and the 

green ; 
And there, with small wealth but his legs and his 

hands. 
As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands. 

All trades, as need was, did old Adam assume, — 
Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, and groom ; 
But nature is gracious, necessity kind. 
And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his 
mind, 



He seems ten birthdays younger, is green and is 

stout ; 
Twice as fast as before does his blood run about ; 



276 WOEDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

You would say that eacli hair of his beard was alive, 
And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive. 

For he 's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes 
About work that he knows, in a track that he knows ; 
But often his mind is compelled to demur, 
And you guess that the more then his body must stir. 

In the throng of the town like a stranger is he, 
Like one whose own country's far over the sea ; 
And Nature, while through the great city he hies, 
Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise. 

This gives him the fancy of one that is young, 
More of soul in his face than of words on his tongue ; 
Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs. 
And tears of fifteen will come into his eyes. 

What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats ? 
Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets ; 
With a look of such earnestness often will stand, 
You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the 
Strand. 

Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours 

Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her 

flowers, 
Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made 
Poor winter look fine in such strange masquerade. 

'Mid coaches and chariots, a wagon of straw. 
Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw ; 
With a thousand soft pictures his memory will teem. 
And his hearing is touched with the sounds of a 
dream. 



INCIDENT AT BRUGES. 277 

Up the Haymarket bill he oft whistles his way, 
Thrusts his hands in a wagon, and smells at the hay ; 
He thinks of the fields he so often hath mown. 
And is happy as if the rich freight were his own. 

But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair, — 

If you pass by at morning, you '11 meet with him 

there. 
The breath of the cows you may see him inhale. 
And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury Vale. 

Now farewell, old Adam ! when low thou art laid 
May one blade of grass spring up over thy head ; 
And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be, 
Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves of a tree. 

1803. 



INCIDENT AT BRUGES. 

TN Bruges town is many a street 

Whence busy life hath fled ; 
Where, without hurry, noiseless feet. 

The grass-grown pavement tread. 
There heard we, halting in the shade 

Flung from a Convent-tower, 
A harp that tuneful prelude made 

To a voice of thrilling power. 

The measure, simple truth to tell. 
Was fit for some gay throng ; 

Though from the same sfvim tujTet fell 
The shadow and the song. 
24 



g7& W0KDSWORTH.'& POEMS. 

When silent were botli voice and ehordsj^- 
The strain seemed doubly dear, 

Yet sad as sweet, — for Mnglish wcffds' 
Had fallen upon thie ear. 

It was a breezy bour of eve ; 
And pinnacle and spire 

Quivered and seemed almost to beave,. 
Clotbed witb innocuoufr fife ;. 
* But, wbere we stood, tb€ setting sun- 
Showed little of bis state ; 

And, if the glory reached the Nun,. 
'T was through an iron grate. 

Not always is the heart unwise^ 

Nor pity idly born, 
If even a passing stranger sighs 

For them who do not mourn. 
Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove. 

Captive, whoe'er thou be ! 
Oh ! what is beauty, what is love^ 

And opening life to thee ? 



Such feeling pressed upon my soul, 

A feeling sanctified 
By one soft trickling tear that stole 

From the Maiden at my side ; 
Less tribute could she pay than this, 

Borne gaily o'er the sea. 
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss 

Of English liberty ? 



YARE-OW VISITED 27® 



■SONNET- 

THO;UGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF 
SWITZEKIiAND. 

■'Tl'^O Voices are ttere ; one is of the sea, 

One of the mountains ; each a mighty Voice :; 
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 
They were thy chosen music, Liberty ! 
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee 
Thou fought'st against him ; but hast vainly striven^ 
Thou from thy Alpine Jiolds at length art drivea, 
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft : 
Then cleave, "O cleave to that which still is left ; 
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be 
That Mountain floods should thunder as before. 
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, 
.And neither awful Voice be ieard by thee.! 



YARROV/ VISITED— Septembesi, 1814- 

A ND is this — Yarrow ? — This the Stream 
Of which my fancy cherished, 
-So faithfully a waking dream? 
An image that hath perished ! 
'O that some Minstrel's harp were neai^ 
To utter notes of gladness, 
And chase this silence from the air. 
That fills my heart with sadness ! 



280 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS, 

Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 

With uncontrolled meanderings ; 

Nor have these eyes by greener hills 

Been soothed, in all thy wanderings. 

And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake 

Is visibly delighted ; 

For not a feature of those hills 

Is in the mirror slighted. 

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Yale,, 

Save where that pearly whiteness 

Is round the rising sun diffused, 

A tender hazy brightness ; 

Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 

All profitless dejection ; 

Though not unwilling here to admit 

A pensive recollection. 

Where was it that the famous Flower 

Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? 

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 

On which the herd is feeding : 

And haply from this crystal pool, 

Now peaceful as the morning, 

The Water-wraith ascended thrice — 

And gave his doleful warning. 

Delicious is the Lay that sings 

The haunts of happy Lovers, 

The path that leads them to the grove^ 

The leafy grove that covers : 

And Pity sanctifies the Verse 

That paints, by strength of sorrow. 

The unconquerable strength of love; 

Bear witness, rueful Yarrow 1 



Y A R R O W ? I S I f E D . 

'But -then, that didst appear so Mr 

To fond imagination. 

Dost rival in the light of day 

Her delicate creation : 

Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 

A softness still and holy ; 

The grace of forest -chartas decayed. 

And pastoral melanchbly. 

That region l«ft, the vale unfolds 

Ilich groves of lofty stature, 

With Yarrow winding through the ponip 

■Of cultivated -nature ; 

And, rising from those lofty grOres, 

-Behold a Ruin hoary ! 

'The shattered front of Newark's Towers, 

Renowned in Border story. 

Fair scenes for childhood's opening blooa, 

For sportive youth to stray in ; 

For manhood to eijjoy his strength; 

And age to wear away in ; 

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 

A covert for protection 

Of tender thoughts that nestle there— ^ 

The brood of chaste affection. 

How sweet, on tliis autumnal day. 
The wild-wood fruits to gather, 
And on my True-love's forehead plaiil; 
A crest of blooming heather 1 
And what if I unwreathed my own ! 
T were no offence to reason ; 
The sober Hills thus deck their brows 
To iDieet the wintry season, 
24* 



— = 


fi 




... ;■ 

282 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 




I see — but not by sight alone. 




Loved Yarrow, have 1 won thee ; 




A ray of fancy still survives— 




Her sunshine plays upon thee I 




Thy ever youthful waters keep \ I 




A course of lis'ely pleasure ; : 
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe> ! 






Accordant to the measure. 




The vapors linger round the Heights, 




They melt, and soon must vanish ; 




One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — ^ 




Sad thought, which I would banish. 




But that I know, where'er I go. 




Thy genuine image, Yarrow ! 




Will dwell with me — to heighten joy^ 




And cheer my mind with sorrow. 




GRACE DARLING. 




A MONO the dwellers in the silent field 

The natural heart is touched, and public way l 






And crowded street resound with ballad strains. 




Inspired by one whose very name bespeaks 




Favor divine, exalting human love ; 




Whom, since her birth on bleak Northumbria's 




coast, 




Known unto few, but prized as far as known. 




A single Act endears to high and low 




Through the whole land — to Manhood, moved in 




spite 




Of the world's freezing cares — to generous Youth — 



"-^ 



GRACE DARLING. 283 

To Infancy, that lisps her praise — to Age 

Whose eye reflects it, ghstening through a tear 

Of tremulous admiration. Such true fame 

Awaits her now ; but, verily, good deeds 

Do no imperishable record find 

Save in the rolls of heaven, where hers may live 

A theme for angels, Avhen they celebrate 

The high-souled virtues which forgetful earth 

Has witness'd. Oh ! that winds and waves could 

speak 
Of things which their united power called forth 
From the pure depths of her humanity ! 
A Maiden gentle, yet, at duty's call. 
Firm and unflinching, as the Lighthouse reared 
On the Island-rock, her lonely dwelling-place ; 
Or like the invincible Rock itself that braves, 
Age after age, the hostile elements, 
As when it guarded holy Cuthbert's cell. 

All night the storm had raged, nor ceased, nor 
paused, 
When, as day broke, the Maid, through misty air, 
Espies far oflf a Wreck, amid the surf. 
Beating on one of those disastrous isles-— 
Half of a Vessel, half — no more ; the rest 
Had vanished, swallowed up with all that there 
Had for the common safety striven in vain. 
Or thither thronged for refuge. With quick glance 
Daughter and Sire through optic-glass discern, 
Clinging about the remnant of this Ship, 
Creatures, how precious in the Maiden's sight ! 
For whom, belike, the old Man grieves still more 
Than for their fellow-sufferers engulfed 
Where every parting agony is hushed, 



284 WORDSWOKTH'S POEMS 

And hope and fear mix not in open strife. 
" But courage, Father ! let us out to sea— 
A few may yet be saved." The Daughter's words, 
Her earnest tone, and look beaming with faith, 
Dispel the Father's doubts : nor do they lack 
The noble-minded Mother's helping hand 
To launch the boat ; and with her blessing cheered, 
And inwai-dly sustained by silent prayer. 
Together they put forth, Father and Child ! 
Each grasps an oar, and struggling on they go- 
Rivals in effort ; and, alike intent 
Here to elude and there surmount, they watch 
The billows lengthening, mutually crossed 
And shattered, and re-gathering their might; 
As if the tumult, by the Almighty's will 
Were, in the conscious sea, roused and prolonged 
That woman's fortitude — so tried, so proved— 
May brighten more and more ! 

True to the mark. 
They stem the current of that perilous gorge. 
Their arms still strengthening with the strengthening 

heart, 
Though danger, as the Wreck is near'd, becomes 
More imminent. Not unseen do they approach ; 
And rapture, with varieties of fear 
Incessantly conflicting, thrills the frames 
Of those who, in that dauntless energy. 
Foretaste deliverance ; but the least perturbed 
Can scarcely trust his eyes, when he perceives 
That of the pair — tossed on the waves to bring 
Hope to the hopeless, to the dying, life — 
One is a Woman, a poor earthly sister. 
Or, be the Visitant other than she seems, 



GEACE DARLING. 285 

A guardian Spirit sent from pitying Heaven, 

In Woman's shape. But why prolong the tale. 

Casting meek words amid a host of thoughts 

Armed to repel them ? Every hazard faced 

And difficulty mastered, with resolve 

That no one breathing should be left to perish, 

This last remainder of the crew are all 

Placed in the little boat, then o'er the deep 

Are safely borne, landed upon the beach. 

And, in fulfilment of God's mercy, lodged 

Within the sheltering Lighthouse. Shout, ye 

Waves ! 
Send forth a song of triumph. Waves and Winds, 
Exult in this deliverance wrought through faith 
In Him whose Providence your rage hath served ! 
Ye screaming Sea-mews, in the concert join! 
And would that some immortal Voice — a Voice 
Fitly attuned to all that gratitude 
Breathes out from floor or couch, through pallid lips 
Of the survivors — to the clouds might bear — 
Blended with praise of that parental love, 
Beneath whose watchful eye the Maiden grew 
Pious and pure, modest and yet so brave. 
Though young so wise, though meek so resolute — 
Might carry to the clouds and to the stars, 
Yea, to celestial Choirs, Grace Darling's name ! 

1842o 



286 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 



SONNET. 

/THREAT men have been among us ; hands that 

penned 
And tongues that uttered wisdom — better none : 
The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, 
Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. 
These moralists could act and comprehend: 
They knew how genuine glory was put on ; 
Taught us how rightfully a nation shone 
In splendor : what strength was, that would not 

bend 
But in magnanimous meekness. France, 't is strange. 
Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. 
Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change ! 
No single volume paramount, no code. 
No master spirit, no determined road ; 
But equally a want of books and men ! 



INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS 

IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING THE IMAGI- 
NATION IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH. 

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. 

[This extract is reprinted from " The Friend."J 

T^ISDOM and Spirit of the Universe ! 

Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought ! 
And giv'st to forms and images a breath 
And everlasting motion ! not in vain. 
By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn 
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
The passions that build up our human soul ; 



OF NATURAL OBJECTS. 287 

Not with the mean and vulgar works of man ; 
But with high objects, with enduring things, 
With hfe and nature, purifying thus 
The elements of feeling and of thought, 
And sanctifying by such discipline 
Both pain and fear, — until we recognise 
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 

Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me 
With stinted kindness. In November days. 
When vapors rolling down the valleys made 
A lonely scene more lonesome ; among woods 
At noon ; and mid the calm of summer nights, 
When, by the margin of the trembling lake. 
Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went 
In solitude, such intercourse was mine : 
Mine was it in the fields both day and night 
And by the waters, all the summer long, 
And in the frosty season, when the sun 
Was set, and, visible for many a mile. 
The cottage windows through the twilight blazed, 
I heeded not the summons; happy time 
It was indeed for all of us ; for me 
It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 
The village-clock tolled six — I wheeled about, 
Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
That cares not for his home. — All shod with steel 
We hissed along the polished ice, in games 
Confederate, imitative of the chase 
And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn, 
The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare. 
So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 
And not a voice was idle : with the din 
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 



288 WORDSWOKTH'S POEMS. 

The leafless trees, and every icy crag 
Tinkled like iron ; while far-distant hills 
Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the stars. 
Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west 
The orange sky of evening died away. 

Not seldom from the uproar I retired 

Into a silent bay, or sportively 

Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng. 

To cut across the reflex of a star ; 

Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed 

Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes. 

When we had given our bodies to the wind. 

And all the shadowy banks on either side 

Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still 

The rapid line of motion, then at once 

Have I, reclining back upon my heels. 

Stopped short ; yet still the solitary cliffs 

Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had rolled 

With visible motion her diurnal round ! 

Behind me did they stretch in solemn train. 

Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched 

Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 

1799. 



THE BROTHERS. 

" n^HESE Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs 

must live 
A profitable life ; some glance along. 
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air. 
And they were butterflies to wheel about 
Long as the summer lasted ; some, as wise, 



THE BROTHERS. 289 

Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag. 
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, 
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, 
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, 
Or reap an acre of his neighbor's corn. 
But, for that moping Son of Idleness, 
Why can he tarry yonder ? — In our church-yard 
Is neither epitaph nor monument, 
Tombstone nor name — only the turf we tread 
And a few natural graves." 

To Jane, his wife. 
Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. 
It was a July evening, and he sate 
Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves 
Of his old cottage, — as it chanced, that day, 
Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone 
His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool. 
While from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire. 
He fed the spindle of his youngest child. 
Who, in the open air, with due accord 
Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps, . 
Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the 

field 
In which the Parish Chapel stood alone. 
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, 
While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent 
Many a long look of wonder : and at last. 
Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge 
Of carded wool which the old man had piled, 
He laid his implements with gentle care, 
Each in the other locked ; and, down the path 
That from his cottage to the church-yard led, 
He took his way, impatient to accost 
The stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. 

25 



29a WORDSWOBTH'S POEMS. 

T was one well known to him in; former dajs>, 
A Shepherd-lad ; who ere his sixteenth year 
Had left that ealling, tempted to entrust 
His expectations to the fickle winds 
And perilous waters ; with the mariners 
A fellow -mariner ; — and so had fared 
Through twenty seasons ; but he had been reared 
Among the mountains, and he in his heaxl 
Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. 
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard 
The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds 
Of caves and trees : — and, when the regular wind 
Between the tropics filled the steady sail. 
And blew with the same breath through days anJ 

weeks. 
Lengthening invisibly its weary line 
Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours 
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang 
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze ; 
And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam 
Flashed round him images and hues that wrought 
In union with the employment of his heart. 
He, thus by feverish passion overcome. 
Even with the organs of his bodily eye. 
Below him, in the bosom of the deep, 
Saw mountains ; saw the forms of sheep that grazed 
On verdant hills — with dwellings among trees. 
And shepherds clad in the same country grey 
Which he himself had worn.* 

And now, at last. 
From perils manifold, with some small wealth 



* The description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect 
recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of th« 
Hurricane. 



THE BE<5THERS. -291 

A<;q'uii'€d by traffic 'mdd the Ifidiaa Isles, 

To his paternal home he is returned. 

With a determined purpose to resui»e 

The life he had lived there ; both for the sake 

Of many darling pleasures and the love 

Which to an only brother he has borne 

In all his hardships, since that happy time 

When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two 

Were brotl>er-shepherds on their native hills. 

— They were the last of all the.ir race: and now 

When Leonard had approached his home, his heart 

Failed in him ; and, not venturing to inquire 

Tidings of one so long and dearly loved. 

He t© the solitary church -yard turned .; 

That, as he knew in what particular spot 

His family were laid, he thence might learn 

If still his Brother lived, or to the file 

Another grave was added. He had found 

Another grave, — ^near which a. full half -hour 

He had remained ; but, as he gazed, there grew 

Sueh a eonfusioa in bis memory, 

That he began to doubt, and even to hope 

That he had seen this heap -of turf before,— 

That it was not another grave ; but -one 

He had forgotten. He had lost his path. 

As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked 

Through fields which once had been well known to 

him : 
And 'Oh what joy this recollection now 
Sent to his heart ! he lifted up his eyes. 
And, looking round, imagined that he saw 
■Strange alteration wrought on eveiy side 
Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks. 
And everiasting hills themselves wei;e changed.. 



292 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

By this the Priest, who down the field had come. 
Unseen by Leonard, at the chiirch-yard gate 
Stopped short, — and thence, at leisure, limb by limb 
Perused him with a gay complacency. 
Aye, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 
*T is one of those who needs must leave the path. 
Of the world's business to go wild alone : 
His arms have a perpetual holiday ; 
The happy man will creep about the fields. 
Following his fancies by the hour, to bring 
Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles 
Into his face, until the setting sun 
Write fool upon his forehead. — Planted thus 
Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate 
Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared 
The good Man might have communed with himself. 
But that the Stranger, who had left the grave. 
Approached ; he recognised the Priest at once. 
And, after greetings interchanged, and given 
By Leonard to the Vicar as to one 
Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. 

Leonard. You live. Sir, in these dales, a quiet 
life: 
Your years make up one peaceful family ; 
And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come 
And welcome gone, they are so hke each other, 
They cannot be remembered ? Scarce a funeral 
Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months ; 
And yet, some changes must take place among you : 
And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks, 
Can trace the finger of mortality. 
And see, that with our threescore years and ten, 

We are not all that perish. 1 remember 

(For many years ago I passed this road) 



THE BROTHERS. ^93 

There was a foot-way all al-oirg th« fields 

By the breok-side — 't is gone-— and that dark cleft ! 

To me it does not seem to w-ear the face 

Which then it had ! 

Priest. Kay, '^r, for augM I know. 

That chasm is much the same-"- 

Leonard. But, surely, yonder — 

Priest. Ay, th-sre, indeed, your memory is a friend 
That does not play you false,- — ^On that tall pike 
{It is the loneliest place of all these hills) 
There were two springs which bubbled side by side. 
As if they had been made that they might be 
Companions for each other: the huge crag 
Was rent with lightning — one hath disappeared ; 
The other, left behind, is flowing still. 
For accidents and changes such as these. 
We want not store of them ;■— a water-spout 
Will bring down half a mountain^ what a feast 
For folks that wander up and down like you. 
To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff 
t)ne roaring cataract ! a sharp May -storm 
Will come with loads of January snow. 
And in one night send twenty score of sheep 
To feed the ravens ; or a shepherd "dies 
By some untoward death among the rocks : 
The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge ; 
A wood is felled ; — and then for our own homes \ 
A child is born or christened, a field ploughed, 
A daughter sent to service, a web spun, 
The old house-clock is decked with a new face ; 
And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates 
To chronicle the time, we all have here 
h. pair of diaries, — one serving, Sir, 
For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side — 



294 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Yours was a stranger's judgment : for historians. 
Commend me to these valleys ! 

Leonard. Yet your Church-yard 

Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, 
To say that you are heedless of the past : 
An orphan could not find his mother's grave : 
Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass, 
Cross-bones nor skull, — type of our earthly state 
Nor emblem of our hopes : the dead man's home 
Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. 

Priest. Why, there. Sir, is a thought that 's new 
to me ! 
The stone-cutters, 't is true, might beg their bread 
If every English church-yard were like ours ; 
Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth : 
We have no need of names and epitaphs ; 
We talk about the dead by our fire-sides. 
And then, for our immortal part ! we want 
No symbols. Sir, to tell us that plain tale : 
The thought of death sits easy on the man 
Who has been born and dies among the mountains. 

Leonard. Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's 
thoughts 
Possess a kind of second hfe : no doubt 
You, Sir, could help me to the history 
Of half these graves ? 

Priest. For eight-score winters past. 

With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard. 
Perhaps I might ; and, on a winter-evening, 
If you were seated at my chimney's nook, 
By turning o'er these hillocks one by one. 
We two could travel. Sir, through a strange round ; 
Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 
Now there's a grave — your foot is half upon it, — 



THE BROTHEKS. 295 

It looks just like the rest ; and yet that man 
Died broken-hearted. 

Leonard. 'T is a common case. 

We '11 take another : -who is he that lies 
Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves ? 
It touches on that piece of native rock 
Left in the church-yard wall. 

Priest. That's Walter Ewbank. 

He had as vy^hite a head and fresh a cheek 
As ever were produced by youth and age 
Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. 
Through five long generations had the heart 
Of "Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds 
Of their inheritance, that single cottage — 
You see it yonder ! and those few green fields. 
They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son. 
Each struggled, and each yielded as before 
A little — yet a little, — and old Walter 
They left to him the family heart, and land 
With other burdens than the crop it bore* 
Year after year the old man still kept up 
A cheerful mind, — and buffeted with bond, 
Interest, and mortgages ; at last he sank. 
And went into his grave before his time. 
Poor Walter 1 whether it was care that spurred him 
God only knows, but to the very last 
He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale : 
His pace was never that of an old man : 
I almost see him tripping down the path 
With his two grandsons after him : — but you, 
Unless our Landlord be your host to-night, 
Have far to travel, — and on these rough paths 
Even in the longest day of midsummer— 

Leonard. But those two Orphans ! 



296 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Priest. Orphans !-^Such they were — 

Yet not while Walter lived : — for, though their pa- 
rents 
Lay buried side by side as now they lie, 
The old man was a father to the boys. 
Two fathers in one father ; and if tears, 
Shed when he talked of them where they were not, 
And hauntings from the infirmity of love. 
Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart, 
This old Man, in the day of his old age, 
Was half a mother to them. — If you weep, Sir, 
To hear a stranger talking about strangers, 
Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred ! 
Aye--^you may turn that way — ^it is a grave 
Which will bear looking at. 

Leonurd. These boys — I hope 

They loved this good old Man ?— 

Priest. They did — and truly : 

But that was what we almost overlooked, 
They were such darlings of each other. Yes, 
Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter, 
The only kinsman near them, and though he 
Inclined to both by reason of his age, 
With a more fond, familiar tenderness ; 
They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare. 
And it all went into each other's hearts. 
Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months. 
Was two years taller : 't was a joy to see, 
To hear, to meet them! — From their house the 

school 
Is distant three short miles, and in the time 
Of storm and thaw, when every water-course 
And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed 
Crossing our roads at every himdred steps. 



THE BROTHERS. 397 

Was swoln into a noisy rivulet. 
Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained 
At home, go staggering through the slippery fords, 
Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him, 
On windy days, in one of those stray brooks. 
Aye, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep 
Their two books lying both on a dry stone, 
Upon the hither side ; and once I said, 
As I remember, looking round these rocks 
And hills on which we all of us were bom, 
That God, who made the great book of the world 
Would bless such piety — 

Leonard. It may be then — 

Priest. Never did worthier lads break English 
bread ; 
The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw 
With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts. 
Could never keep those boys away from church. 
Or tempt them to an hour of Sabbath breach. 
Leonard and James ! I warrant, every corner 
Among these rocks, and every hollow place 
That venturous foot could reach, to one or both 
Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there. 
Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills ; 
They played like two young ravens on the crags : 
Then they could write, aye and speak t6o, as well 
As many of their betters — and for Leonard ! 
The very night before he went away. 
In my own house I put into his hand 
A bible, and I'd wager house and field 
That, if he be alive, he has it yet. 

Leonard. It seems, these brothers have not lived 
to be 
A comfort to each other — 



S98 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Priest. That they might 

Live to such end is what both old and young 
In this our valley all of us have wished, 
And what, for my part, I have often prayed : 
But Leonard — 

Leonard. Then James still is left among you ! 

Priest. 'T is of the elder brother I am speaking : 
They had an uncle ; — he was at that time 
A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas : 
And, but for that same uncle, to this hour * 
Leonard had never handled rope or shroud : 
For the boy loved the life which we lead here ; 
And though of unripe years, a stripling only, 
His soul was knit to this his native soil. 
But, as I said, old Walter was too weak 
To strive with such a torrent j when he died, 
The estate and house were sold ; and all their sheep, 
A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, 
Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years : — 
Well — all was gone, and they were destitute, 
And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake, 
Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. 
Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him. 
If there were one among us who had heard 
That Leonard Ewbank was come home again. 
From the Great Gavel,* down by Leeza's banks, 
And down the Enna, far as Egremont, 
The day would be a joyous festival ; 
And those two bells of ours, which there you see — 

* The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to the 
gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland mountains. 
It stands at the head of the several vales of Ennerdale, Wastdale, and 
Borrowdale. 

The Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake of Ennerdale : on issu- 
ing from the Lake it changes its name, nnd is caUed the End, Eyne, or 
Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont 



THE BEOTHEES. 399 

Hanging in the open air — but, good Sir, 

This is sad talk — they 'II never sound for him — 

Living or dead. When last we heard of him. 

He was in slavery among the Moors 

Upon the Barhary coast. — 'T was not a little 

That would bring down his spirit ; and no doubt. 

Before it ended in his death, the Youth 

Was sadly crossed. — Poor Leonard ! when we 

parted, 
He took me by the hand, and said to me. 
If e'er he should grow rich, he would return 
To live in peace upon his father's land. 
And lay his bones among us. 

Leonard. If that day * 

Should come, 't would needs be a glad day for him ; 
He would himself, no doubt, be happy then 
, As any that should meet him — 

Priest. Happy! Sir — 

Leonard. You said his kindred all were in their 
graves. 
And that he had one Brother — 

Priest. That is but 

A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth 
James, though not sickly, yet was delicate; 
And Leonard being always by his side, 
Had done so many offices about him. 
That, though he was not of a timid nature. 
Yet still the spirit of a mountain -boy 
In him was somewhat checked ; and, when bis 

Brother 
Was gone to sea, and he was left alone. 
The little color that he had was soon 
Stolen from his cheek ; he drooped, and pined, and 
pined — 



300 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Leonard. But these are all the graves of full- 



grown men 



Priest. Aye, Sir, that passed away : we took him 
to us ; 
He was the child of all the dale — he lived 
Three months with one, and six months with another; 
And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love ; 
And many, many happy days were his. 
But, whether blithe or sad, 't is my belief 
His absent Brother still was at his heart. 
And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found 
(A practice till this time unknown to him) 
That often, rising from his bed at night. 
He In his sleep would walk about, and sleeping 
He sought his brother Leonard. — You are moved ! 
Forgive me, Sir : before I spoke to you, 
I judged you most unkindly. 

Leonard. But this Youth, 

How did he die at last ? 

Priest. One sweet May-morning 

(It will be twelve years since when Spring returns). 
He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs, 
With two or three companions whom their course 
Of occupation led from height to height 
Under a cloudless sun — till he, at length, 
Through weariness, or haply, to indulge 
The humor of the moment, lagged behind. 
You see yon precipice ; — it wears the shape 
Of a vast building made of many crags ; 
And in the midst is one particular rock 
That rises like a column from the vale, 
Whence by our shepherds it is called, The Pillar. 
Upon its aery summit crowned with heath. 
The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, 



THE BROTHERS. 301 

Lay stretched at ease ; but, passing by the place 
On their return, they found that he was gone. 
No ill was feared ; till one of them by chance 
Entering, when evening was far spent, the house 
Which at that time was James's home, there learned 
That nobody had seen him all that day: 
The morning came, and still he was unheard of: 
The neighbors were alarmed, and to the brook 
Some hastened ; some ran to the lake : ere noon 
They found him at the foot of that same rock 
Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after 
I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies ! 

Leonard. And that, then, is his grave ! — Before 
his death 
You say that he saw many happy years ? 

Priest. Aye, that he did — 

Leonard. And all went well with him ? — 

Priest. If he had one, the youth had twenty homes. 

Leonard, And you believe, then, that his mind 
was easy? — 

Priest. Yes, long before he died, he found that 
time 
Is a true friend to sorrow ; and unless 
His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless 

fortune. 
He talked about him with a cheerful love. 

Leonard. He could not come to an unhallowed end ! 

Priest. Nay, God forbid ! — You recollect I men- 
tioned 
A habit which disquietude and grief 
Had brought upon him ; and we all conjectured 
That, as the day was warm, he had lain down 
On the soft heath, — and, waiting for his comrades, 
He there had fallen asleep ; that in his sleep 

26 



302^ WO-RDS-WOETH'S POSMS, 

He to' tlie margin ef the precipice 
Had walked, and from tlie summit fead falen head- 
long : 
And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth 
Fell; in his hand he must have grasp'd, we think, 
His shepherd's staff ; for on that Pillar of rock 
It had been caught midway ; and there for jear& 
It hung ;— and mouldered there. 

The Priest here ended! — 
The Stranger wouM have thanked him,, but he felt 
A gushing from his heart, that took away 
The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence ; 
And Leonard,- when they reached the church-yard 

gate, 
As the Priest lifted tip the lateh, turned round, — 
And, looking at the grave, he said, *'My Brother!'' 
The Vicar did not hear the words : and now, 
He pointed towards his dwelhng- place, entreating 
That Leonard would partake his homely fare : 
The other thanked him with an earnest voice; 
But added, that the evening being calm, 
He would pursue his journey. So they parted. 

It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove 
That overhung the road ; he there stopped short. 
And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed 
All that the Priest had said : his early years 
Were with him : — his long absence, cherished hopeS; 
And thoughts which had been his an hour before, 
All pressed on him with such a weight, that now. 
This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed 
A place in which he could not bear to hve ; 
So he relinquished all his purposes. 



■BONNET. 303 

He travelled back to Egrement : a-nd theaoe, 
Tbat night he wrote a letter to the Priest, 
Eeminding him of what had passed between tiiem^ 
And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, 
That rt was from the weakness ©f his heart 
He had not dared to tell him who he was. 
This done, he went on shipboard, and is now 
A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner^ 



.SON.NET. 

'T O S L E E P . 



A 



FLOCK of sheep tbat leisurely pass by. 
One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds and seas. 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure skyj 
I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie 
Sleepless 1 and soon the smaill birds' melodies 
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees; 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay. 
And could not win thee, Sleep ! by anj^ stealth.: 
■80 do not let me wear to-night away : 
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ? 
dome, blessed barrier between day and day, 
©ear mother of frvesh thoughts and joyous health ! 



■^04 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 



THE IDIOT BOY. 

''T^IS eight o'clock, — a clear Marcli night. 

The moon is up, — the sky is blue, 
The owlet, in the moonlight air. 
Shouts from nobody knows where ; 
He lengthens out his lonely shout, 
Halloo ! halloo ! a long halloo ! 

— Why bustle thus about your door. 
What means this bustle, Betty Foy ? 
Why are you in this mighty fret ? 
And why on horseback have you set 
Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy ? 

Scarcely a soul is out of bed ; 
Good Betty, put him down again ; 
His lips with joy they burr at you ; 
But, Betty ! what has he to do 
With stirrup, saddle, or with rein ? 

But Betty's bent on her intent ; 
For her good neighbor, Susan Gale, 
Old Susan, she who dwells alone. 
Is sick, and makes a piteous moan. 
As if her very life would fail. 

There 's not a house within a mile, 
No hand to help them in distress ; 
Old Susan lies a-bed in pain, 
And sorely puzzled are the twain 
For what she ails they cannot guess. 



THE IDIOT BOY. 

And Betty's husband 's at the wood, 
Where by the week he doth abide, 
A woodman in the distant vale ; 
There 's none to help poor Susan 'Gale ; 
What must be done ? what will betide ? 

And Betty froin the lane has fetchei 
Her Pony, that is mild and good ; 
Whether he be in joy or pain, 
Feeding at will along the lane, 
■Or bringing faggots from the wood,, 

And he is all in travelling trim,-— 
And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy 
Has on the well-girt saddle set 
^(The like was never heard of yet)' 
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy, 

And he must post without delay 
Across the bridge and through the da!©, 
And by the church, and o'er the down. 
To bring a Doctor from tho town, 
Or she will die, old Susan Gale, 

There is no need of boot or spur, 
There is no need of whip or wand ? 
For Johnny has his holly-bough, 
And with a hurly-^hurly now 
He shakes the green bough in his hand. 

And Betty o'er and o'er has told 
The Boy, who is her best delight, 
Both what to follow, what to shun. 
What do, and what to leave undone,' 
How turn to left, and how to right 
26* 



306 WOEDSWOKTH'S POEMS. 

And Betty's most especial charge 
Was, " Johnny ! Johnny ! mind that you 
Come home again, nor stop at all. — • 
Come home again, whate'er befal ! 
My Johnny, do, I pray you do." 

To this did Johnny answer make 
Both with his head and with his hand. 
And proudly shook the bridle too ; 
And then ! his words were not a few. 
Which Betty well could understand. 

And now that Johnny is just going. 
Though Betty 's in a mighty flurry, 
She gently pats the Pony's side, 
On which her Idiot boy must ride, 
And seems no longer in a hurry. 

But when the Pony moved his legs. 
Oh ! then for the poor Idiot Boy ! 
For joy he cannot hold the bridle. 
For joy his head and heels are idle. 
He 's idle all for very joy. 

And while the Pony moves his legs. 
In Johnny's left hand you may see 
The green bough motionless and dead J 
The Moon that shines above his head 
Is not more still and mute than he. 

His heart it was so full of glee, 
That till full fifty yards were gone. 
He quite forgot his holly whip, 
And all his skill in horsemanship : 
Oh ! happy, happy, happy John, 



THE IDIOT BOY. 307 

And while the Mother, at the door, 
Stands fixed, her face with joy overflows, 
Proud of herself, and proud of him, 
She sees him in his travelling trim, 
How quietly her Johnny goes. 

The silence of her Idiot Boy, 
What hopes it sends to Betty's heart ! 
He 's at the guide-post — he turns right ; 
She tvatches till he 's out of sight, 
And Betty will not then depart. 

Burr, burr — now Johnny's lips they burr, 
As loud as any mill, or near it ; 
Meek as a lamb the JPony taoves, 
And Johnny makes the noise he loves, 
And Betty listens, glad to hear it. 

Away she hies to Susan Gale : 
Her Messenger 's in merry tune ; 
The owlets hoot, the owlets curr. 
And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, 
As on he goes beneath the moon. 

His steed and he right well agree ; 
For of this Pony there 's a rumor 
That, should he lose his eyes and ears, 
And should he live a thousand years, 
He never will be out of humor. 

But then he is a horse that thinks ! 
And when he thinks, his pace is slack ; 
Now, tho' he knows poor Johnny well, 
Yet, for his life, he cannot tell 
What he has got upon his back. 



308 WOKDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

So througli the moonliglit lanes they go, 
And far into the moonlight dale. 
And by the church, and o'er the down, 
To bring a Doctor from the town. 
To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 

And Betty now, at Susan's side, 
Is in the middle of her story. 
What speedy help her Boy will bring, 
With many a most diverting thing, 
Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory. 

And Betty, still at Susan's side, 
By this time is not quite so flurried ; 
Demure with porringer and plate 
She sits, as if in Susan's fate 
Her life and soul were buried. 

But Betty, poor good woman ! she, 
You plainly in her face may read it. 
Could lend out of that moment's store 
Five years of happiness or more 
To any that might need it. 

But yet I guess that now and then 
With Betty all was not so well ; 
And to the road she turns her ears. 
And thence full many a sound she hears, 
Which she to Susan will not tell. 

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans ; 
" As sure as there 's a moon in heaven," 
Cries Betty, " he '11 be back again ; 
They '11 both be here — 't is almost ten— 
Both will be here before eleven." 



THE IDIOT BOY. 309 

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans ; 
The clock gives warning for eleven ; 
'T is on the stroke — " He must be near," 
Quoth Betty, " and will soon be here, 
As sure as there 's a moon in heaven." 

The clock is on the stroke of twelve, 

And Johnny is not yet in sight; 

— The Moon 's in heaven, as Betty sees, 

But Betty is not quite at ease ; 

And Susan has a dreadful ni^ht. 

And Betty, half an hour ago. 
On Johnny vile reflections cast ; 
" A little idle saimtering Thing !" 
With other names, an endless string ; 
But now that time is gone and past. 

And Betty's drooping at the heart. 
That happy time all past and gone, 
" How can it be he is so late ? 
The Doctor he has made him wait ; 
Susan ! they '11 both be here anon." 

And Susan 's growing worse and worse. 
And Betty 's in a sad quandary ; 
And then there 's nobody to say 
If she must go, or she must stay ! 
She 's in a sad quandary. 

The clock is on the stroke of one ; 
But neither Doctor nor his Guide 
Appears along the moonlight road ; 
There's neither horse nor man abroad, 
And Betty's still at Susan's side. 



310 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

And Susan now begins to fear 

Of sad mischances not a few, 

That Johnny may perhaps be drowned ; 

Or lost, perhaps, and never found ; 

Which they must both for ever rue. 

She prefaced half a hint of this 
With " God forbid it should be true !" 
At the first word that Susan said, 
Cried Betty, rising from the bed, 
" Susan, I 'd gladly stay with you. 

I must be gone, I must away : 
Consider, Johnny 's but half wise ; 
Susan, we must take care of him. 
If he is hurt in life or limb" — 
" Oh God forbid !" poor Susan cries. 

« What can I do ?" says Betty, going, 
" What can I do to ease your pain ? 
Good Susan tell me, and I '11 stay ; 
I fear you 're in a dreadful way. 
But I shall soon be back again." 

" Nay, Betty, go ! good Betty, go ! 
There 's nothing that can ease my pain." 
Then off she hies ; but with a prayer 
That God poor Susan's life would spare, 
Till she comes back again. 

So, through the moonlight lane she goes, 
And far into the moonlight dale ; 
And how she ran and how she walked, 
And all that to herself she talked, 
Would surely be a tedious tale. 



THE IDIOT BOY. 311 

In higli and low, above, below, 
In great and small, in round and square. 
In tree and tower was Johnny seen, 
In bush, and brake, in black and green ; 
'T was Johnny, Johnny, everywhere. 

And while she crossed the bridge, there came 
A thought with which her heart is sore- 
Johnny perhaps his horse forsook. 
To hunt the moon within the brook 
And never will be heard of more. 

Now is she high upon the down, 
Alone amid a prospect wide ; 
There 's neither Johnny nor his Horse 
Among the fern or in the gorse ; 
There 's neither Docstor nor his Guide. 

" Oh saints ! what is become of him ? 
Perhaps he 's climbed into an oak, 
Where he will stay till he is dead ; 
Or, sadly he has been misled, 
And joined the wandering gipsy-folk. 

Or him that wicked Pony 's carried 
To the dark cave, the goblin's hall ; 
Or in the castle he 's pursuing 
Among the ghosts his own undoing ; 
Or playing with the waterfall." 

At poor old Susan then she railed. 
While to the town she posts away ; 
" If Susan had not been so ill, 
Alas! I should have had him still. 
My Johnny, till my dying-day." 



312 RTORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Poor Betty, ia this sad distemper. 
The Doctor 's self could hardly spare ; 
Unworthy things she talked, and wild ; 
Even he, of cattle the most mild 
The Pony had his shai-e. 

But now she 's fairly in the town, 
And to the Doctor's door she hies ; 
'T is silence all on every side ; 
The town so long, the town so wide, 
Is silent as the skies. 

And now she 's at the Doctor's door, 
She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap ; 
The Doctor at the casement shows 
His glimmering eyes that peep and doze ! 
And one hand rubs his old night-cap. 

" Oh Doctor ! Doctor ! where's my Johnny ?" 
" I'm here, what is't you want with me ?" 
" Oh Sir ! you know I 'm Betty Foy, 
And I have lost my poor dear Boy, ' 

You know him — him you often see ; 

He 's not so wise as some folks be :" 
" The devil take his wisdom !" said 
The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, 
" What woman ! should I know of him ?" 
And, grumbling, he went back to bed ! 

" woe is me ! woe is me ! 
Here will I die ; here will I die ; 
I thought to find my lost one here, 
But he is neither far nor near, 
Oh ! what a wretched Mother I !" 











THE IDIOT BOY. 313 
She stops, she stands, she looks about; 






Which way to turn she cannot tell. 

Poor Betty ! it would ease her pain 

If she had heart to knock again ; 

— The clock strikes three — a dismal knell! 

Then up along the town she hies, 

No wonder if her senses fail ; 

This piteous news so much it shocked her, 

She quite forgot to send the Doctor 

To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 

And now she 's high upon the down, 
And she can see a mile of road ; 
" cruel ! I 'm almost threescore; 
Such night as this was ne'er before, 
There 's not a single soul abroad." 

She listens, but she cannot hear 
The foot of horse, the voice of man ; 
The streams with softest sound are flowing, 
The grass you almost hear it growing, 
You hear it now, if e'ei- you can. 

The owlets through the long blue night 
Are shouting to eucli other still ; 
Fond lovers ! yet not quite hob nob. 
They lengthen out the tremulous sob. 
That echoes far from hill to hill. 

Poor Betty now has lost all hope. 
Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin, 
A green-grown pond she just has past. 
And from the brink she. hurries fast. 
Lest she should drown in-iself therein. 
21 














314 WORDSWORTH'S PaEMS. 






And BOW slie sits lier down and weeps y: 






Sucli tears she never shed before ; 






" Oh dear, dear Pony ! my sweet joy 






Oh carry back my Idiot Boy ! 






And we'll ne'er o'erload thee more." 






A thought is come into her head : 






The Pony he is mild and good, 






And we have always used him well ; 






Perhaps he 's gone along the dell. 






And carried Johnny to the wood. 






Then up she springs as if on wings ; 






She thinks no more of deadly sin ; 






If Betty fifty ponds should see. 






The last of all her thoughts would be 






To drown herself therein. 






Reader ! now that I might tell 






What Johnny and his horse are doing 1 






What they 've been doing all this time. 






Oh could I put it into rhyme. 






A most delightful tale pursuing ! 






Perhaps, and no unlikely thought ! 






He with his Pony now doth roam 






The cliffs and peaks so high that are. 






To lay his hands upon a star. 






And in his pocket bring it home. 






Perhaps he turn'd himself about. 
His face vmto his horse's tail. 
And, still and mute, in wonder lost. 
All silent as a horseman-ghost, 
He travels slowly down the vale. 











J — 






i ■ 


THE IDIOT BOY. 315 




\ ' 


And now, perhaps, is hunting sheep 
A fierce and dreadful hunter he ; 
Yon valley, now so trim and green, 
In five months' time, should he be seen, 
A desert wilderness will be ! 

Perhaps, with head -and heels on fire. 

And like the very soul of evil, 

He 's galloping away, away, 

And so will gallop on for aye. 

The bane of all that dread the devill 

I to the Muses have been bound 

These fourteen years, by strong indentures: 

gentle Muses ! let me tell 

But half of what to him befel ; 

He surely m-et with strange adventures. 

gentle Muses ! is this kind ? 
Why will ye thus my suit repel ? 
Why of your further aid bereave me ? 
And can ye thus unfriended leave me: 
Ye Muses ! whom I love so well ? 

Who 's yon, that, near the waterfall. 
Which thunders down with headlong force. 
Beneath the moon, yet shining fair, 
As careless as if nothing were. 
Sits upright on a feeding horse ? 

Unto his horse — there feeding free. 
He seems, I think, the rein to give ; 
Of moon or stars he takes no heed ; 
Of such we in romances read. 




' 


— 'Tis Johnny ! Johnny I as I live. 




,1 







316 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

And that 's the very Pony, too ! 
Where is she, where is Betty Foy ? 
She hardly can sustain her fears ; 
The roaring waterfall she hears. 
And cannot find her Idiot Boy. 

Your Pony 's worth his weight in gold ; 
Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy ! 
She 's coming from among the trees. 
And now all full in view she sees 
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. 

And Betty sees the Pony too : 

Why stand you thus, good Betty. Foy ? 

It is no goblin, 't is no ghost, 

'T is he whom you so long have lost. 

He whom you love, your Idiot Boy. 

She looks again — her arms are up — 
She screams — she cannot move for joy; 
She darts, as with a torrent's force. 
She almost has o'erturned the Horse, 
And fast she holds her Idiot Boy. 

And Johnny burrs and laughs aloud ; 
Whether in cunning or in joy 
I cannot tell ; but while he laughs, 
Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs 
To hear again her Idiot Boy. 

And now she 's at the Pony's tail. 
And now is at the Pony's head, — 
On that side now, and now on this ; 
And, almost stifled with her bliss, 
A few sad tears does Betty shed. 



MA 






THE IDIOT BOY. '317 




She tisses o'er and o'er again 




Plim whom she loves, her Idiot Boy'; 




She 's happy here, is happy there, 




She is uneasy everywhere ; 




Her hmbs are all alive with joy. 




She pats tlie Pony, where or when 




She knows not, happy Betty Foy 1 




!rhe little Pony glad may be. 




But he is milder far than she, 




You hardly can perceive his joy. 




" Oh ! Johnny, never mind the Doctor ; 




You 've done your best, and that is all :'^ 




She took the reins, when this was said, 




And gently turned the Pony's head. 




From the loud waterfall. 




By this the stars were almost gone, 




The moon was setting on the hill. 




So pale you scarcely looked at her: 




The little birds began to stir. 




Though yet their tongues were still. 




The Pony, Betty, and her Boy, 




Wind slowly through the woody dale ; 




And who is she, betimes abroad. 




That hobbles up the steep rough road ? 




Who is it but old Susan Gale ? 




Long time lay Susan lost in thought ; 




And many dreadful fears beset her. 




Both for her Messenger and Nurse ; 




And as her mind grew worse and worse, 




Her body — it grew better. 




27* 

















318 WOEDSWORTH"'^ POEMS, 




She turned, she tossed herself in bed, 
On all sides doubts and terrors met her ; 
Point after point did she discuss ; 
And while her mind was fighting thus, 
Her body still grew better. 




" Alas ! what is become of them ? 

These fears can never be endured ; 

I '11 to the wood." — The word scarce said. 

Did Susan rise tip from her bed. 

As if by magic cured. 




Away she goes up hill and down, 

And to the wood at length is come ; 

She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting ; 

Oh me ! it is a merry meeting 

As ever was in Christendom. 




The owls have hardly sung their last. 
While our four travellers homeward wend ; 
The owls have hooted all night long. 
And with the owls began my song, 
And with the owls must end. 




For while they all were travelling home, 
Cried Betty, '« Tell us, Johnny, do. 
Where all this long night you have been, 
What you have heard, what you have seen ; 
And, Johnny, mind you tell us true." 




Now Johnny all night long had heard 
/ The owls in tuneful concert strive ; 
"No doubt too he the moon had seen; 
For in the moonlight he had been 
From eight o'clock till five. 







SONNET. 319 

And thus, to Betty's question, he 

Made answer, like a traveller bold 

(His very words I give to you), 

" The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, 

And the sun did shine so cold !' 

— Thus answered Johnny in his glory, 

And that was all his travel's story. 



SONNET. 



TJER only pilot the soft breeze, the boat 

Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied ; 
With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side, 
And the glad Muse at liberty to note 
All that to each is precious, as we float 
Gently along ; regardless who shall chide 
If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide, 
Happy Associates breathing air remote 
From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse, 
Why have I crowded this small bark with you 
And others of your kind, ideal crew ! 
While here sits One, whose brightness owes its hues 
To flesh and blood ; no Goddess from above, 
No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love ! 



320 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

PRESENTIMENTS. 

PRESENTIMENTS ! they judge not right 
Who deem that ye from open hght 

Retire in fear of shame ; 
All heaven-born Instincts shun the touch 
Of vulgar sense, — and, being such, 

Such privilege ye claim. 

The tear whose source I could not guess, 
The deep sigh that seemed fatherless, 

Were mine in early days; 
And now, unforced by time to part 
With fancy, I obey my heart. 

And venture on your praise. 

What though some busy foes to good, 
Too potent over nerve and blood. 

Lurk near you — and combine 
To taint the health which ye infuse ; 
This hides not from the moral Muse, 

Your origin divine. 

How oft from you, derided Powers 1 
Comes faith that in auspicious hours 

Builds castles not of air ; 
Bodings unsanctioned by the will 
Flow from your visionary skill. 

And teach us to beware. 

The bosom -weight, your stubborn gift, 
That no philosophy can lift, 

Shall vanish, if ye please. 
Like morning mist: and, where it lay. 
The spirits at your bidding play 

In gaiety and ease. 



PRESENTIMENTS. 321 

Star-guided contemplations move 

Through space, through calm, not raised above 

Prognostics that ye rule ; 
The naked Indian of the wild. 
And haply, too, the cradled Child, 

Are pupils of your school. 

But who can fathom your intents, 
Number their signs or instruments ? 

A rainbow, a sunbeam, 
A subtle smell that Spring unbinds, 
Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds, 

An echo, or a dream. 

The laughter of the Christmas hearth 
With sighs of self -exhausted mirth 

Ye feelingly reprove 
And daily in the conscious breast. 
Your visitations are a test 

And exercise of love. 

When some great change gives boundless 

scope 
To an exulting Nation's hope, 

Oft, startled and made wise 
By your low-breathed interpretings, 
The simply meek foretaste the springs 

Of bitter contraries. 

Ye daunt the proud array of war. 
Pervade the lonely ocean far 

As sail hath been unfurled ; 
For dancers in the festive hall 
What ghastly partners hath your call 

Fetched from the shadowy world. 



S22 WORDSWOKTH'S POEMS 

'T is said, that warnings ye dispense, 
Emboldened by a keener sense ; 

That men have Uved for whom, 
With dread precision, ye made clear 
The hour that in a distant year 

Should knell them to the tomb. 

Unwelcome insight ! Yet there are 
Blest times when mystery is laid bare. 

Truth shows a glorious face, 
While on that isthmus which commands 
The councils of both worlds, she stands, 

Sage spirits ! by your grace. 

God, who instructs the brutes to scent 
All changes of the element, . 

Whose wisdom fixed the scale 
Of natures, for our wants provides. 
By higher, sometimes humbler, guides, 

When lights of reason fail. 

° 1830. 



MEMORY. 



A 



PEN — to register ; a key — 
That winds through secret wards ; 

Are well assigned to memory 

By allegoric Bards. 



As aptly, also, might be given 

A Pencil to her hand ; 

That, softening objects, sometimes even 

Outstrips the heart's demand ; 



THE KUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 

That smoothes foregone distress, the lines 
Of lingering care subdues, 
Long-vanished happiness refines, 
And clothes in brighter hues ; 

Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works 
Those Spectres to dilate 
That startle Conscience, as she lurks 
Within her lonely seat. 

! that our lives, which flee so fast, 
In purity were such, 
That not an image of the past 
Should fear that pencil's touch ! 

Retirement then might hourly look 
Upon a soothing scene, 
Age steal to his allotted nook 
Contented and serene ; 

With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, 
In frosty moonlight glistening ; 
Or mountain rivers, where they creep 
Along a channel smooth and deep, 
To their own far-off murmurs listening. 



323 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 

PART I. 

"PNOUGH of rose-bud hps and eyes 
-^ Like harebells bathed in dew, 
Of cheek that with carnation vies, 
And veins of violet hue ; 



1823. 



324 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Earth wants not beauty that may scorn 

A likening to frail flowers ; 
Yea, to the stars, if they were bom 

For seasons and for hours. 

Through Moscow's gates, with gold unbarred, 

Stepped one at dead of night, 
Whom such high beauty could not guard 

From meditated blight ; 
By stealth she passed, and fled as fast 

As doth the hunted fawn, 
Nor stopped, till in the dappling east 

A.ppeared unwelcome dawn. 

Seven days she lurked in brake and field, 

Seven nights her course renewed, 
Sustained by what her scrip might yield. 

Or berries of the wood ; 
At length in darkness travelling on. 

When lowly doors were shut, 
The haven of her hope she won, 

Her Foster-mother's hut. 

" To put your love to dangerous proof 

I come," said she, " from far ; 
For I have left my Father's roof. 

In terror of the Czar." 
No answer did the Mation give, 

No second look she cast, 
But hung upon the Fugitive, 

Embracing and embraced. 

She led the Lady to a seat 

Beside the glimmering fire. 
Bathed duteously her \7ayw0rn feet. 

Prevented each desire : — 











THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 325 






The cricket chirped, the house-dog dozed, 

And on that simple bed, 
Where she in childhood had reposed. 

Now rests her weary head. 

When she, whose couch had been the sod, 

Whose curtain, pine or thorn. 
Had breathed a sigh of thanks to God, 

Who comforts the forlorn ; 
While over her the Matron bent, 

Sleep sealed her eyes and stole 
Feeling from limbs with travel spent, 

And trouble from the soul. 

Refreshed, the Wanderer rose at morn, 

And soon again was dight 
In those unworthy vestments worn 

Through long and perilous flight ; 
And " beloved Nurse," she said, 

" My thanks with silent tears 
Have unto Heaven and You been paid : 

Now listen to ray feai-s ! 

" Have you forgot" — and here she smiled— 

" The babbling flatteries 
You lavished on me when a child 

Disporting round your knees ? 
I was your lambkiu, and your bird, 

Your star, your gem, your flower ; 
Light words, that were more lightly heard 

In many a cloudless hour 1 

" The blossom you so fondly praised 

Is come to bitter fruit ; 
A mighty One upon me gazed ; 

I spurned his lawless suit, 
28 




L 







S26 WOlDSV/ORTH'S POEMS. 

And must be hidden from his wrath : 

You, Foster-father dear, 
Will guide me in my forward path ; 

I may not tarry here I 

" I cannot bring to utter woe 

Your proved fidelity," — 
"Dear Child, sweet Mistress, say not so! 

For you we both would die." 
" Nay, nay, I come with semblance feigned 

And cheek embrowned by art ; 
Yet, being inwardly unstained. 

With courage will depart." 

" But whither would you, could you> fleet f 

A poor Man^s counsel take ; 
The Holy Virgin gives to me 

A thought for your dear sake ; 
Rest, shielded by our Lady's grace, 

And soon shall you be led 
Forth to a safe abiding-place. 

Where never foot doth tread." 



PART II, 



The dwelling of this faithful pa,ir 

In a straggling village stood, 
For One who breathed unquiet air, 

A dangerous neighborhood ; 
But wide around lay forest ground. 

With thickets rough and blind ; 
And pine-trees made a heavy shade 

Imper\dous to the wind. 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 327 

And there sequestered from tlie sigM, 

Was spread a treacherous swamp, 
On which the noon-day sun shed light 

As from a lonely lamp ; 
And midway in the unsafe morass 

A single Island jx)se. 
Of firm dry ground, with healthful grass 

Adorned, and shady boughs. 

The Woodman knew, for such the craft 

This Russian vassal plied, 
That never fowler's gun, nor shaft 

Of archer there was tried ; 
A sanctuary seemed the spot 

From all intrusion free ; 
And th-ere he planned an artful Cot 

For perfect secresy. 

With earnest pains unchecked by dread 

Of Power's far-stretching hand, 
The bold good Man his labor sped 

At I^ature's pure command ; 
Heart-soothed, and busy as a wren. 

While, in a hollow nook. 
She moulds her sight-eluding den 

Above a murmuring brook. 

His task accom.plished to his mind, 

The twain ere break of day 
Creep forth, and through the forest wind 

Their solitary wa}^ ; 
Few words they speak, nor dare to slack 

Their pace from mile to mile. 
Till they have crossed the quaking marsk, 

And reached the lonely Isle. 



328 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

The sun above the pine-trees showed 

A bright and cheerful face ; 
And Ina looked for her abode, 

The promised hiding-place ; 
She sought in vain, the Woodman smiled ; 

ISTo threshold could be seen, 
Nor roof, nor window ; — all seemed wild 

As it had ever been. 

Advancing, you might guess an hour. 

The front with such nice care 
Is masked, " if house it be or bower,'* 

But in they entered are ; 
As shaggy as were wall and roof 

With branches intertwined. 
So smooth was all within, air-proof, 

And delicately lined : 

And hearth was there, and maple dish. 

And cups in seemly rows, 
And couch — all ready to a wish 

For nurture or repose ; 
And Heaven doth to her virtue grant 

That here she may abide 
In solitude, with every want 

By cautious love supplied. 

No queen, before a shouting crowds 

Led on in bridal state, 
E'er struggled with a heai't so proud. 

Entering her palace gate ; 
Hejoiced to bid the world farewell, 

No saintly anchoress 
E'er took possession of her cell 

With deeper thankfulness. 



^ 






THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 32§ 




■" Father of all, upon thy care 




And mercy am I thrown ; 




Be theu my safeguard !"-^such her prayer 




When she "was left alone, 




Kneehng amid the wilderness 




Wlien joy had passed away. 




And smiles, fond efforts of distress 




To hide what they betray ! 




The prayer is heard, the Saints have seen^ 




Diffused through form and face. 




Resolves devotedly serene; 




That monumental grace 




Of Faith, which doth all passions tame 




That Reason should control ; 




And shows in the untrembling frame 




A statue of the soul. 




PART III, 




'Tis sung in ancient minstrelsy 




That Phoebus wont to wear 




The leaves of any pleasant tree 




Around his golden hair ; 




Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit 




Of his imperious love. 




At her own prayer transformed, took roofej 




A laurel in the grove. 




Then did the Penitent adorn 




His brow with laurel green 




And 'liiid his bright locks never shorn 




No meaner leaf was seen ; 




28* 








330 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS, 

And poets sage, tlirougli every age. 
About their temples wound 

The bay ; and conquerors thanked the 
Gods, 
With laurel chaplets crowned. 

Into the mists of fabling Time , 

So far runs back the praise 
Of Beauty, that disdains to climb 

Along forbidden ways ; 
That scorns temptation ; power defies 

Where mutual love is not ; 
And to the tomb for rescue flies 

When life would be a blot. 

To this fair Votaress, a fate 

More mild doth Heaven ordain 
Upon her Island desolate ; 

And words not breathed in vain 
Might tell what intercourse she found, 

Her silence to endear ; 
What birds she tamed, what flowers thet 
ground 
Sent forth her peace to cheer. 

To one mute Presence, above all, 

Her soothed affections clung, 
A picture on the cabin wall 

By Russian usage hung — 
The Mother-maid, whose countenance 
i bright 

With love abridged the day ; 
And, communed with by taper light. 

Chased spectral fears away. 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 331 

And oft, as either Guardian came. 

The joy in that retreat 
Might any common friendship shamCj 

So high tlieir hearts would beat ; 
And to the lone Recluse, whate'er 

They brought, each visiting 
Was like the crowding of the year 

With a new burst of spring. 

But when she of her Parents thought^ 

The pang was hard to bear ; 
And, if with all things not enwrought. 

That trouble still is near. 
Before her flight she had not dared 

Their constancy to prove, 
Too much the heroic Daughter feared 

The weakness of their love. 

Dark is the past to them, and dark 

The future still must be. 
Till pitying Saints conduct her bark 

Into a safer sea — 
Or gentle Nature close her eyes, 

And set her Spirit free 
From the altar of this sacrifice, 

In vestal purity. 

Yet, when above the forest-glooms 

The white swans southward passed, 
High as the pitch of their swift plumes 

Her fancy rode the blast ; 
And bore her toward the fields of France, 

Her Father's native land, 
To mingle in the rustic dance, 

The happiest of the band ! 






332 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Of tbose beloved fields she oft 

Had heard her Father tell 
In phrase that now with echoes soft 

Haunted her lonely cell ; 
She saw the hereditary bowers, 

She heard the ancestral stream; 
The Kremlin and its haughty towers 

Forgotten like a dream ! 



PART IV, 



The ever-changing Moon had traced 

Twelve times her monthly round, 
When through the unfrequented Waste 

Was heard a startling sound ; 
A shout thrice sent from one who chased 

At speed a wounded deer. 
Bounding through branches interlaced. 

And where the wood was clear. 

The fainting creature took the marsh, 

And toward the Island fled, 
While plovers screamed with tumult harsh 

Above his antlered head ; 
This Ina saw ; and, pale with fear, 

Shrunk to her citadel ; 
The desperate deer rushed on, and near 

The tangled covert fell. 

Across the marsh, the game in view, 

The Hunter followed fast, 
Nor paused, till o'er the stag he blew 

A death-proclaiming blast ; 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 333 

Then, resting on lier upriglit mind, 

Came forth the Maid— "In me 
Behold," she said, " a stricken Hind 

Pursued by destiny !■ 

" From your deportment. Sir ! I deem 

That you have worn a sword. 
And will not hold in light esteem 

A suffering woman's word ; 
There is my covert, there perchance 

I might have lain concealed, 
My fortunes hid, my countenance 

Not even to you revealed. 

" Tears might be shed, and I might pray. 

Crouching and terrified. 
That what has been unveiled to-day, 

You would in mystery hide ; 
But I will not defile with dust 

The knee that bends to adore 
The God in heaven ; — attend, be just ; 

This ask I, and no more ! 

." I speak not of the winter's cold, 

For summer's heat exchanged, 
While I have lodged in this rough hold, 

From social life estranged ; 
Nor yet of trouble and alarms ; 

High Heaven is my defence ; 
And every season has soft arms 

For injured Innocence. 

*' From Moscow to the Wilderness 

It was my choice to come. 
Lest virtue should be harborless, 

And honor want a home ; 



334 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

And happy were I, if the Czar 

Retain his lawless will. 
To end life here like this poor deer. 

Or a lamb on a green hill." 

" Are you the Maid," the Stranger cried, 

" From Gallic parents sprung, 
Whose vanishing was rumored wide, 

Sad theme for every tongue ; 
Who foiled an Emperor's eager quest ? 

You, Lady, forced to wear 
These rude habiliments, and rest 

Your head in this dark lair !" 

But wonder, pity, soon were quelled ; 

And in her face and mien 
The soul's pure brightness he beheld 

Without a veil between : 
He loved, he hoped — a holy flame 

Kindled 'mid rapturous tears ; 
The passion of a moment came 

As on the wings of years. 

** Such bounty is no gift of chance," 

Exclaimed he ; " righteous Heaven, 
Preparing your deliverance. 

To me the charge hath given. 
The Czar full oft in words and deeds 

Is stormy and self-willed ; 
But, when the Lady Catherine pleads. 

His violence is stilled. 

" Leave open to my wish the course, 

And I to her will go ; 
From that humane and heavenly source. 

Good, only good, can flow." 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 335 

Faint sanction given, the Cavalier 

Was eager to depart, 
Though question followed question, dear 

To the Maiden's filial heart. 

Light "was his step, — his hopes, more light, 

Kept pace with his desires : 
And the fifth morning gave him sight 

Of Moscow's glittering spires. 
He sued : — heart-smitten by the wrong. 

To the lorn Fugitive 
The Emperor sent a pledge as strong 

As sovereign power could give. 

more than mighty change ! If e'er 

Amazement rose to pain, 
And joy's excess produced a fear 

Of something void and vain ; 
'Twas when the Parents, who had mourned 

So long the lost as dead. 
Beheld their only Child returned, 

The household floor to tread. 

Soon gratitude gave way to love 

Within the Maiden's breast 
Delivered and Deliverer move 

In bridal garments drest; 
Meek Catherine had her own reward ; 

The Czar bestowed a dower ; 
And universal Moscow shared 

The triumph of that hour. 

Flowers strewed the ground ; the nuptial feast 

Was held with costly state ; 
And there, 'mid many a nqble guest, 

The Foster-parents sate; 



336 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Encouraged by the imperial eye, 
They shrank not into shade ; 

Great was their bliss, the honor high 
To them and nature paid ! 



SONNET. 

FKOM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO. 



yi 



'"ES ! hope may with my strong desire keep pace. 
And I be undeluded, unbetrayed ; 
For if of our affections none find grace 
In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made 
The world which we inhabit ? Better plea 
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee 
Glory to that eternal Peace is paid. 
Who such divinity to thee imparts 
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. 
His hope is treacherous only whose love dies 
With beauty, which is varying every hour; 
But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power 
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower, 
That breathes on earth the air of paradise. 



/ZJ,LAD sight wherever new with old 

Is joined through some dear homeborn tie ; 
The life of all that we behold 
Depends upon that mystery. 
Vain is the glory of the sky, 
The beauty vain of field and grove 
Unless, while with admiring eye 
We gaze, we also learn to love. 



SONNETS. 337 

SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF 
DEATH. 

I. 

T^TT retribution, by tlie moral code 

Determined, lies beyond tlie State's embrace, 
Yet, as she may, for each peculiar case 
She plants well-measured terrors in the road 
Of wrongful acts. Dotvnward it is and broad, 
And, the main fear once doomed to banishment, 
Far oftener then, bad ushering worse event, 
Blood would be spilt that in his dark abode 
Crime might lie better hid. And, should the change 
Take from the horror due to a foul deed, 
Pursuit and evidence so far must fail, 
And, guilt escaping, passion then might plead 
In angry spirits for her old free range, 
And the " wild justice of revenge " prevail. 

II. 

Though to give timely warning and deter 
Is one great aim of penalty, extend 
Thy mental vision further and ascend 
Far higher, else full surely shalt thou err. 
What is a State ? The wise behold in her 
A creature born of time, that keeps one eye 
Fixed on the statutes of Eternity, 
To which her judgments reverently defer. 
Speaking through Law's dispassionate voice the State 
Endues her conscience with external life 
And being, to preclude or quell the strife 
Of individual will, to elevate 
The grovelling mind, the erring to recal, 
And fortify the moral sense of all. 
29 





338 WORDSWORTH'S FOEMS-. 

III. 
Our bodily life, some plead, tLat life the shrine 
Of an immortal spirit, is a gift 
So sacred, so informed with liajht divine, 
1'hat no tribunal, thoua^h most wise to sift 
Deed and intent, should turn the Being>&drift 
Into that world where penitential tear 
May not avail, nor prayer have for God's ear 
A voice — that world whose veil no hand can lift 


i 




For earthly sight. "Eternity and Time," 






They urge, " have interwoven claims and rights 


: 




Not to be jeopardized through foulest crime : 






The sentence rule by mercy'^s heaven-born lights," 






Even so ; but measuring not by finite sense 


; 




Infinite Power, perfect Intelligence, 


; 




IT. 

Ah, think how one compelled for life to abide 






Locked in a dungeon needs must eat the heart 


; 




Out of his own humanity, and part 






"With every hope that mutual cares provide ; 






And, should a less unnatural doom confide 






In long-life exile on a savage coast. 






Soon the relapsing penitent may boast 






Of yet more heinous guilt, with fiercer pride. 






Hence thoughtful Mercy, Mercy sage and pure, 
Sanctions the forfeiture that Law demands,. 
Leaving the final issue in His hands 
Whose goodness knows no change, whose love ia 

sure. 
Who sees, foresees ; who cannot judge amiss. 
And wafts at will the contrite soul to bhss. 











BONNETS-. 339 



■■v.. 
'■See fhe 'Condemned alone within his cell 
And prostrate at some moment when remorse 
Stings to the quick, and with resistless force. 
Assaults the pride she strove in vain to quell 
Then mark him., him who could so long rebels 
The crime confessed, a kneeling Penitent 
Before the Altar, where the Sacrament 
Softens his heart, till from his eyes outwell ^ 

Tears of salvation. Welcome death ! while Heaves 
Does in this change exceedingly rejoice; 
While yet the solemn heed the State hath gives 
Helps him to meet the last Tribunal's Voice 
In faith, which fresh offences, were he cast 
On old temptations, might for ever blast. 



CONCLUSION. 

Yes, though he well may tremble at the sotmd 
Of his own voice, who from the judgment-seat 
Sends the pale Convict to his last retreat 
In death ; though listeners shudder all around. 
They know the dread requital's source profound.; 
Nor is, they feel, its wisdom obsolete — 
(Would that it were !) the sacrifice unmeet 
For Christian Faith. But hopeful signs abound:; 
The social rights of man breathe purer air ; 
Religion deepens her preventive care ; 
Then, moved by needless fear of past abuse, 
Strike not from Law's firm hand that awful rod. 
But leave it thence to drop for lack of use: 
;01i! speed the blessed hour, Almighty God! 



340 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

VII. 

APOLOGY. 

The formal world relaxes his cold chain 

For One who speaks ia numbers ; ampler scope 

His utterance finds ; and, conscious of the gain, 

Imagination works with bolder hope 

The cause of grateful reason to sustain ; 

And, serving Truth, the heart more strongly beats 

Against all bariiers which his labor meets 

In lofty place, or humble Life's domain. 

Enough ; — before us lay a painful road. 

And guidance have I sought in duteous love 

From Wisdom's heavenly Fathei-. Hence hath 

flowed 
Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way 
Each takes in this high matter, all may move 
Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day. 

184a 



EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 
I. 

COMPOSED BT THE SEA SHORE. 

VA/'HAT mischief cleaves to unsubdued regret 
How fancy sickens by vague hopes beset ; 
How baffled projects on the spirit prey, 
And fruitless wishes eat the heart away, 
The Sailor knows ; he best, whose lot is cast 
On the relentless sea that holds him fast 
On chance dependent, and the fickle star 
Of power, through long and melancholy war. 



J 



EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 341 

sad it iSj, in sight of foreign shores, 

Daily to think on old familiar doors, 

Hearths loved in childhood, and ancestral floors; 

Or, tossed about along a waste of foam, 

To ruminate on. that delightful home 

Which with the dear Betrothed ^vas to come ; 

Or came and was and is, yet meets the eye 

Never but in the world of memory ; 

Or in a dream recalled, whose smoothest range 

Is crossed by knowledge, or by dread, of change, 

And if not so, whose perfect joy makes sleep 

A thing too bright for breathing man to keep. 

Hail to the virtues which that perilous life 

Extracts from Nature's elemental strife ; 

And v/elcome glory won in battles fought 

As bravely as the foe was keenly sought. 

But to each gallant captain and his crew 

A less imperious sympathy is due. 

Such as my verse now yields, while moonbeams play 

On the mute sea in this unruffled bay ; 

Such as will promptly flow from every breast, 

Where good men, disappointed in the quest 

Of wealth, and power, and honors, long for rest ; 

Or, having known the splendor of success, 

Sigh for the obscurities of happiness. 



II. 

The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love, 
Glories of evening, as ye there are seen 
With but a span of sky between—^ 

Speak one of you, my doubts remove. 

Which is the attendant Page and which the Queen? 



U2 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 



TO THE MOON. 
(Composed by the sea side, on the Coast of Cumherland.)' 

Wanderer ! that stoop'st so low, and com'st so near 

To human hfe's unsettled atmosphere; 

Who lov'st with Night and Silence to partake. 

So might it seem, the cares of them that wake ; 

And, through the cottage-lattice softly peeping, 

Dost shield from harm the humblest of the sleeping ; 

What pleasui-e once encompassed those sweet names 

Which yet in thy behalf the Poet claims, 

An idolizing dreamer as of yore ! — 

I slight them all ; 'and, on this sea-beat shore 

Sole-sitting, only can to thoughts attend 

That bid me hail thee as the Sailor's Friend ; 

So call thee for heaven's grace through thee made 

known 
By confidence supplied and mercy shown, 
When not a twinkling star or beacon's light 
Abates the perils of a stormy night ; 
And for less obvious benefits, that find 
Their way, with thy pure help, to heart and mind ; 
Both for the adventurer starting in life's prime ; 
And veteran ranging round from clime to clime, 
Long-bafiled hope's slow fever in his veins. 
And wounds and weakness oft his labor's sole re- 



The aspiring mountains and the winding Streams, 
Empress of Night ! are gladdened by thy beams; 
A look of thine the wilderness pervades, 
A.nd penetrates the forest's inmost shades ; 



EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 343 

Tliou, chequering peaceably the minster's gloom, 

Guid'st the pale Mourner to the lost one's tomb ; 

Canst reach the Prisoner — to his grated cell 

Welcome, though silent and intangible ! — 

And lives there one, of all that come and go 

On the o-reat waters toilina^ to and fro. 

One, who has watched thee at some quiet hour 

Enthroned aloft in undisputed power. 

Or crossed by vapory streaks and clouds that move 

Catching the lustre they in part reprove — 

Nor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway 

To call up thoughts that shun the glare of day, 

And make the serious happier than the gay ? 

Yes, lovely Moon ! if thou so mildly bright 
Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite, 
To fiercer mood the phrensy-stricken brain, 
Let me a compensating faith maintain ; 
That there 's a sensitive, a tender part 
Which thou canst touch in every human heart, 
For healing and composure. — But, as least 
And mightiest billows ever have confessed 
Thy domination ; as the whole vast Sea 
Feels through her lowest depths thy sovereignty ; 
So shines that countenance with especial grace 
On them who urge the keel her plains to trace 
Furrowing its way right onward. The most rude. 
Cut off from home and country, may have stood — 
Even till long gazing hath bedimmed his eye, 
Or the mute rapture ended in a sigh — 
Touched by accordance of thy placid cheer, 
With some internal lights to memory dear, 
Or fancies stealing forth to soothe the breast 
Tired with its daily share of earth's unrest, — 



344 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Gentle awakenings, visitations meek ; 

A kindly influence whereof few will speak, 

Thougli it can wet with tears the hardiest cheek. 

And when thy beauty in the shadowy cave 
Is hidden, buried in its monthly grave ; 
Then, while the Sailor, mid an open sea 
Swept by a favoring wind that leaves thought free. 
Paces the deck — no star perhaps in sight, 
And nothing save the moving ship's own light 
To cheer the long dark hours of vacant night — 
Oft with his musings does thy image blend. 
In his mind's eye thy crescent horns ascend. 
And thou art still, Moon ! that Sailor's Friend ! 

183S. 



IV. 
1:0 THE MOON. 

(Rydal.) 



Queen of the stars ! — so gentle, so benign, 

That ancient Fable did to thee assign. 

When darkness creeping o'er thy silver brow 

Warned thee these upper regions to forego. 

Alternate empire in the shades below — 

A Bard, who, lately near the wide-spread sea 

Traversed by gleaming ships, looked up to thee 

With grateful thoughts, doth now thy rising hail 

From the close confines of a shadowy vale. 

Glory of night, conspicuous yet serene, 

Nor less attractive when by glimpses seen 

Through cloudy umbrage, well might that fair face, 

And all those attributes of modest grace. 

In days when Fancy wrought unchecked by fear. 



EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 345 

Down to tlie green earth fetch thee from thy sphere. 
To sit in leafy woods by fountains clear ! 

still belov'd (for thine, meek Power, are charms 
That fascinate the very Babe in arms, 
While he, uplifted towards thee, laughs outright, 
Spreading his little palms in his glad Mother's sight) 
O still belov'd, once worshipped ! Time, that frowns 
In his destructive flight on earthly crowns. 
Spares thy mild splendor ; still those far-shot beams 
Tremble on dancing waves and rippling streams 
With stainless touch, as chaste as when thy praise 
Was sung by Virgin-choirs in festal lays ; 
And through dark trials still dost thou explore 
Thy way for increase punctual as of yore, 
When teeming Matrons — yielding to rude faith 
In mysteries of birth and life and death 
And painful struggle and deliverance — prayed 
Of thee to visit them with lenient aid. 
What though the rites be swept away, the fanes 
Extinct that echoed to the votive strains ; 
Yet thy mild aspect does not, cannot cease 
Love to promote and purity and peace ; 
And Fancy, unreproved, even yet may trace 
Faint types of suffering in thy beamless face. 

Then, silent Monitress ! let us — not blind 
To worlds unthought of till the searching mind 
Of Science laid them open to mankind — 
Told, also, how the voiceless heavens declare 
God's glory ; and acknowledging thy share 
In that blest charge ; let us — without offence 
To aught of highest, holiest influence — 
Receive whatever good 't is given thee to dispense. 



346 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

May sage and simple, catching with one eye 
The moral intimations of the sky, 
Learn from thy course, where'er their own be taken, 
" To look on tempests and be never shaken ;" 
To keep with faithful step the appointed way 
Eclipsing or eclipsed, by night or day, 
And from example of thy monthly range 
Gently to brook decline and fatal change ; 
Meek, patient, steadfast, and with loftier scope, 
Than thy revival yields, for gladsome hope ! 

1835. 



SONNET. 

TO B. R. HA TD N. 

TTIGH is our calling, Friend ! — Creative Art 

(Whether the instrument of words she use. 
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues), 
Demands the service of a mind and heart. 
Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part, 

Heroically fashioned to infuse 

Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, 
While the old world seems adverse to desert. 
And oh ! when Nature sinks, as oft she may. 
Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress, 
Still to be strenuous for the bright reward. 
And in the soul admit of no decay. 
Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness — 
Great is the glory, for the strife is hard ! 



THE FORCE OF PRAYER. 347 



THE FORCE OF PRAYER. * 

OR, 
THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORT. 

A Tradition. 

"OTljat IS flooti for a bootless 6eue?" 

With these dark words begins my Tale ; 

And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring 

When Prayer is of no avail ? 

" OTijat ts floott for a bootless ttm ?" 

The Falconer to the Lady said ; 

And she made answer, " endless sorrow !" 

For she knew that her son was dead. 

She knew it by the Falconer's words, 
And from the look of the Falconer's eye ; 
And from the love which was in her soul 
For her youthful Romilly. 

— Young Romilly through Barden woods 
Is ranging high and low ; 
And holds a greyhound in a leash, 
To let slip upon buck or doe. 

The pair have reached that fearful chasm, 
How tempting to bestride 
For lordly Wharf is there pent in 
With rocks on either side. 

This striding-place is called The Strid, 
A name which it took of yore ; 
A thousand years hath it borne that name. 
And shall a thousand more. 

* See the White Doe of Rylstone. 



348 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

And hither is young Romilly come, 
And what may now forbid 
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time. 
Shall bound across The Strid ? 

He sprang in glee, — for what cared he 

That the river was strong, and the roots "were 

steep ? — 
But the greyhound in the leash hung back, 
And checked him in his leap. 

The Boy is in the arms of Wharf, 
And strangled by a merciless force , 
For never more was young Romilly seen 
Till he rose a lifeless corse. 

IS'ow there is stillness in the vale, 
And long, unspeaking sorrow : 
Wharf shall be to pitying hearts 
A name more sad than Yarrow. 

If for a lover the Lady wept, 

A solace she might borrow 

From death, and from the passion of death ; — 

Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. 

She weeps not for the wedding-day 
Which was to be to-morrow : 
Her hope was a further-looking hope, 
And hers is a mother's sorrow. 

He was a tree that stood alone, 
And proudly did its branches wave ; 
And the root of this dehghtful tree 
Was in her husband's grave ! 



TO JOANNA. 349 

Long, long in the darkness did she sit, 
And her first words were, '• Let there be 
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, 
A stately Priory !" 

The stately Priory was reared ; 
And Wharf, as he moved along. 
To matins joined a mournful voice, 
Nor failed at even-song. 

And the Lady prayed in heaviness, 
That looked not for reHef ! 
But slowly did her succor come, 
And a patience to her grief. 

Oh ! there is never sorrow of heart 
That shall lack a timely end. 
If but to God we turn, and ask 
Of Him to be our friend ! 

1806L 



TO JOANNA 



A MID the smoke of cities did you pass 

The time of early youth ; and there you learned. 
From years of quiet industry, to love 
The living Beings by your own fire-side. 
With such a strong devotion, that your heart 
Is slow to meet the sympathies of them 
Who look upon the hills with tenderness, 
And make dear friendship with the streams and 

groves. 
Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind, 
Dwelling retired in our simplicity 
30 



350 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Among the woods and fields, we love you well, 

Joanna ! and I guess, since you have been 

So distant from us now for two long years, 

That you will gladly listen to discourse. 

However trivial, if you thence be taught 

That they, with whom you once were happy, talk 

Familiarly of you and of old times. 

While I was seated, now some ten days past 
Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop 
Their ancient neighbor, the old steeple-tower, 
The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by 
Came forth to greet me ; and when he had asked 
" How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid ! 
And when will she return to us ?" he paused; 
And, after short exchange of village news, 
He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, 
Revi\dng obsolete idolatry, 
I, like a Runic Priest, in characters 
Of formidable size had chiselled out 
Some uncouth name upon the native rock, 
A-bove the Rotha, by the forest-side. 
Now, by those dear immunities of heart 
Engendered between malice and true love, 
I was not loath to be so catechized, 
And this was my reply : — " As it befel 
One summer morning we had walked abroad 
At break of day, Joanna and myself. 
— 'T was that delightful season when the broom. 
Full-flowered, and visible on every steep. 
Along the copses runs in veins of gold. 
Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks ; 
And when we came in front of that tall rock 
That eastward looks, I there stopped short — and stood 



TO JOANNA. 351 

Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye 

From base to summit ; such delight I found 

To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower 

That intermixture of delicious hues, 

Along so vast a surface, all at once. 

In one impression, by connecting force 

Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. 

— When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space, 

Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld 

That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. 

The Rock, like something starting from a sleep 

Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again ; 

That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag 

Was ready with her cavern ; Hammar-scar, 

And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent forth 

A noise of laughter ; southern Louhrigg heard, 

And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone ; 

Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky 

Carried the Lady's voice, — old Skiddaw blew 

His speaking-trumpet ; — back out of the clouds 

Of Glarmara southward came the voice ; 

And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. 

— Now whether (said 1 to our cordial Friend, 

Who in the hey-day of astonishment 

Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth 

A work accomplished by the brotherhood 

Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched 

With dreams and visionary impulses 

To me alone imparted, sure I am 

That there was a loud uproar in the hills. 

And, while we both were listening, to my side 

The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished 

To shelter from some object of her fear. 

- — And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons 



352 WORDSWOETH'S POEMS, 

"Were -wasted, as I chanced to walk alone 
Beneatli this rock, at sunrise, on a calm 
And silent morning, I sat down, and there. 
In memory of affections old and true, 
I chiselled out iu those rude characters 
Joanna's name deep in the living stone : — 
And I, and all who dwell by my fireside. 
Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Roge."* 

I8e& 



SONNET, 



TT is a beauteous evening, calm and free. 

The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea 
Listen 1 the mighty Being is awake. 
And doth with his eternal motion make 
A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with me herej 
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought. 
Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
Thou liest in x\braham*s bosom all the year j 
And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
God being with thee when we know it not. 

* In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several inscriptions upoB 
the native roek, which, from the wasting of time, and the rudeness of 
the workmanship, have been mistaken for Runic. They are without 
doubt Roman. 

The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the River which, flowing 
through the lakes oi Grasmere and Rydale, falls into Wynandermere. 
On Helmcrag, that impressive single mountain at the head of the Vale 
of Grasmere, is a rock which from most points of view bears a striking 
resemblance to an old Woman cowering. Clo.se by this rook i» one ol 
those fissures or caverns, which in the language of the country are called 
dungeons. Most of the mountains here mentioned immediately surround 
the Vale of Grasmere ; of the others, some are at a considerable dwtano«, 
but they belong to the same cluster. 



TO A SEXTON. 3^3 



TO A SEXTON. 



r ET thy wheel-barrow alone — 
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still 
[n thy bone-house bone on bone ? 
'T is already like a hill 
In a field of battle made. 
Where three thousand skulls are laid ; 
These died in peace each with the other,- 
Father, sister, friend, and brother. 

Mark the spot to which I point ! 
From this platform, eight feet square. 
Take not even a finger-joint : 
Andrew's whole fire-side is there. 
Here, alone, before thine eyes, 
Simon's sickly daughter lies. 
From weakness now, and pain defended. 
Whom he twenty winters tended. 

Look but at the gardener's pride — 
How he glories, when he sees 
Roses, lilies, side by side, 
Violets in families .' 
By the heart of Man, his tears. 
By his hopes and by his fears, 
Thou, too, heedless art the Warden 
Of a far superior garden. 

Thus then, each to other dear. 
Let them all in quiet lie, 
Andrew there, and Susan here. 
Neighbors in mortality. 
30* 







8S. WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 




And, should I live through sun and rain 




Seven widowed years without my Jane, 




Sexton, do not then remove her. 




Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover ! 

1799. 




ODE. 


COMPOSED ON MAT MORNING. 




"VyHILE from the purpling east departs 
The star that led the dawn. 




Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts, 




For May is on the lawn. 




A quickening hope, a freshening glee, 

Foreran the expected Power, 
Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree, 




Shakes off that pearly shower. 




All Nature welcomes Her whose sway 




Tempers the year's extremes ; 
Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day, 




Like morning's dewy gleams ; 
While mellow warble, sprightly trill 




The tremulous heart excite ; 




And hums the balmy air to still 
The balance of delight. 




Time was, blest Power 1 when youths and maids 




At peep of dawn would rise. 




And wander forth in forest glades 




Thy birth to solemnize. 




Though mute the song — to grace the rite 




Untouched the hawthorn bough, 




Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight ; 
Man changes, but not Thou J 









ODE, 355 

Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings 

In Love's disport employ ; 
Warmed by thy influence, creeping things 

Awake to silent joy : 
Queen art thou still for each gay plant 

Where the slim wild deer roves, 
And served in depths where fishes haunt 

Their own mysterious groves. 

Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath, 

Instinctive homage pay; 
Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath 

To honor thee, sweet May ! 
Where cities fanned by thy brisk airs 

Behold a smokeless sky, 
Their puniest flower-pot nursling dares 

To open a bright eye. ; 

And if, on this thy natal morn, ', 

The pole, from which thy name 
Hath not departed, stands forlorn 

Of song and dance and gamo ; 
Still from the village-green a vow 

Aspires to thee addrest. 
Wherever peace is on the brow. 

Or love within the breast. 

Yes ! where Love nestles thou canst teach 

The soul to love the more ; 
Hearts also shall thy lessons reach 

That never loved before. 
Stript is the haughty one of pride. 

The bashful freed from fear. 
While rising, like the ocean-tide. 

In flows the joyous year. 



856 WOEDSWORTH'S POEMS. 

Hush, feeble lyre ! weak words refuse 

The service to prolong ! 
To yon exulting thrush the Muse 

Intrusts the imperfect song ; 
His voice shall chant, in accents clear. 

Throughout the live-long day, 
Till the first silver star appear, 

The sovereignty of May. 



LIFE. 



TTAST thou Seen, with flash incessant. 

Bubbles gliding under ice. 
Bodied forth and evanescent, 
No one knows by what device ? 

Such are thoughts ! — A wind-swept meadow 

Mimicking a troubled sea. 

Such is life ; and death a shadow 

From the rock eternity : 



TO THK 

Right Honorable WILLIAM, £ARL OF LONSDALE, K. a. 

ETC, ETC. 

Oft, through thy fair domains, illustrious Peer ! 
In youth I roamed, on youthful pleasures bent 
And mused in rocky cell or sylvan tent, 
Beside swift-flowing Lowther'a current clear. 
— Now, by thy cai'e befriended, I appear 
Before thee Lonsdale, and this Work present, 
A token (may it prove a monument !) 
Of high respect and gratitude sincere, 
Gladly would I have waited till my task 
Had reached its close ; but Life is insecure, 
And Hope fuU oft fallacious as a dream : 
Therefore, for what is here produced, I ask 
Thy favor ; trusting that thou wilt not deem 
The offering, though imperfect, premature. 

William Wordsworth. 
ETDi.L Mount, Westmoreland, 
July 39, 1814. 



CONTENTS. 



DESICA.TION ...••••.!• 7 

Preface to the Edition of 1814 9 

THE EXCURSION: 

Book I.— The Wanderer .15 

n,— The SoUtary 49 

in. — Despondency 81 

rV. — Despondency Corrected US 

v.— The Pastor 159 

VI.— The Chm-ch-Yard among the Mountains . . 195 

VII.— The above, continued 237 

Vin.— The Parsonage 275 

DC.— Discoiu-se of the Wanderer, and an Evening Visit 



to the Lake 



297 



PREFACE 

To THE EDITION OF 181 4» 



The Title-page announces that this is onlv a portion 
of a poem ; and the reader must be here apprised that 
it belongs to the second part of a long and laborious 
Work, which is to consist of three parts. The Author 
will candidly acknowledge that, if the first of these had 
been completed, and in such a manner as to satisfy iiis 
own mind, he should have preferred the natural order 
of publication, and have given that to the world first ; 
but, as the second division of the Work was designed to 
refer more to passing events, and to an existing state of 
things, than the others were meant to do, more continu- 
ous exertion was natmally bestowed upon it, and greater 
progress made here than in the rest of the poem; and 
as this part does not depend upon the preceding, to a 
degree which will materially injure its own peculiar in- 
terest, the Author, complying with the earnest entreaties 
of some valued Friends, presents the following page^ ro 
the Public. 

It may be proper to state whence the poem, of which 
the Excursion is a part, derives its Title of The Re- 
cluse. — Several years ago, when the author retired to 
his native mountains, with the hope of being enabled to 

9 






X FREFACB. 

construct a literarywork that might live, it was a reason- 
able thing that he should take a review of his own mind, 
and exanaine how far Nature and Education had quali- 
fied him for such employment. As subsidiary to this 
preparation, he undertook to record, in verse, the origin 
and progi'ess of his own powers, as far as he was ac- 
quainted vi^ith them. That Work, addressed to a dear 
Friend, most distinguished for his knowledge and genius, 
and to whom the Author's TiiteUect is deeply indebted, 
has been long finished ; and the result of the investiga- 
tion which gave rise to it was a determination to com- 
pose a philosophical poem, containing views of Man, 
Nature, and Society ; and to be entitled the Recluse ; 
as having for its principal subject the sensations and 
opinions of a poet living in retirement. The preparatory 
poem is biographical, and conducts the history of the 
Author's mind to the point when he was emboldened 
to hope that his faculties were sufificiently mntured for 
entering upon the arduous labor which he had proposed 
to himself; and the two Works have the same kind of 
relation to each other, if he may so express himself, as 
the ante-chapel has to the body of a gothic church. 
Continuing this allusion, he may be permitted to add, 
that his minor Pieces, which hnve been long before the 
PubHc, when they shall be properly arranged, will be 
found by the attentive Reader to have such connection 
with the main Work as may give them claim to be 
likened to the little cells, oratories, and sepulchi-al re- 
cesses, ordinarily included in those edifices. 

The Author would not have deemed himself justified 
in saying, upon this occasion, so much of performances 
either unfinished, or unpublished, if he had not thought 



PREFACE. xi 

that the labor bestowed by him upon what he has here- 
tofore and now laid before the Public, entitled him to 
candid attention for such a statement as he thinks neces- 
sary to thi'ow light upon his endeavors to please, and, he 
would hope, to benefit his countrymen. Nothing fur- 
ther need be added, than that the first and third parts of 
The Recluse will consist chiefly of meditations in the 
Author's own pei-son ; and that in the intermediate part 
(The Excursion) tlie intervention of characters speaking 
is employed, and something of a dramatic form adopted. 
It is not the Author's intention formally to announce 
a system : it was more animating to him to proceed in a 
different course ; and if he shall succeed in conveying 
to the mind clear thoughts, lively images, and strong 
feelings, the Reader will have no difficulty in exti-acting 
the system for himself. And in the meantime the fol- 
lowing passage, taken from the conclusion of the first 
book of The Recluse, may be acceptable as a kind oi 
Prospectus of the design and scope of the whole Poem. 

' On man, on Nature, and on Human Life, 
Musing in solitude, I oft perceive 
Fair trains of imagery before mc rise, 
Accompanied by feelings of delight 
Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed ; 
And I am conscious of affecting thoughts 
And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes 

Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh 

The good and evil of our mortal state. 

— To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come, 

Whether from breath of outward circumstance, 

Or from the Soul — an impulse to herself— 

I would give uttei-ance in numerous veree. 

Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, atwi Hope, 



XU PREFACE. 

And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith J 

Of blessed consolations in distress ; 

Of moral strength, and intellectual Power; 

Of joy in widest commonalty spread ; 

Of the individual Mind that keeps her own 

Inviolate retirement, subject there 

To Conscience only, and the law supreme 

Of that Intelligence which governs all— 

I sing :— * fit audience let me And though few !' 

So prayed, more gaining than he asked, the BarU 
In holiest mood. Urania, I shall need 
Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such 
Descend to earth or dwell in highest heaven 1 
For I must tread on shadowy gi-ound, must sink 
Deep— and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds 
To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. 
All strength— all terror, single or in bands, 
That ever was put forth in personal form— 
Jehovah— with his thunder, and the choir 
Of shouting Angels, and the empyreal thrones — 
I pass them unalai-med. Not Chaos, not 
The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out 
By help of dreams— can breed such fear and awo 
As fall upon us often when we look 
Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man — 
My haunt, and the main region of my song. 
— Beauty — a living Presence of the eailh, 
StU'passing the most fair ideal Forms 
Which craft of delicate Spirits hath compose 
From earth's materials— waits upon my steps; 
Pitches her tents before me as I move. 
An hourly neighbor. Paradise, and groves 
Elysian, Fortmiate Fields— like those of old 
Sought in the Atlantic Main- why should they be 
A iistory only of departed things, 



PREFACE. 

Or a mere fiction of what never was 

For the discerning intellect of Mau, 

When wedded to this goodJy universe 

In love and holy passion, shall find these 

A simple produce of the common day^ 

—I, long before the blissful hour arrives, 

Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse 

Of this gi-eat consummation :' — and, by words 

Wnich speak of nothing more than what we are, 

Would I arouse the sensual from theii- sleep 

Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain 

To noble raptiues ; while my voice proclaims 

How exquisitely the individual Mind 

(And the progressive powers perhaps no less 

Of the whole species) to the external World 

Is iitted : — and how exquisitely, too — 

Theme this but little heard of among men — 

The external World is fitted to the Mind : 

And the creation (by no lower name 

Can it be called) which they with blended might 

Accomplish : — this is om- high argument. 

Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft 

Must turn elsewhere — to travel neai' the tribes 

And fellowships of men, and see ill sights 

Of madding passions mutually inflamed; 

Must hear Humauity in fields and groves 

Pipe soUtary anguish ; or must hang 

Brooding above the fierce confederate storm 

Of soiTow, barricadoed evermore 

Within the waUs of cities — ^may these sounds 

Have their authentic comment ; that even theao 

Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn !— 

Descend, prophetic Spuit ! that inspir'st 

The human Soul of universal earth, i 



Seo. Notes at end of the voiuuid. 



Sit FREFACE. 

Di'eanrtflg' c* ffiSngs to come; and doat posaess^ 
A metropolitah temple In the heai-ts 
Of mighty Poets : upon me bestow 
A gift of genuine insight ; that my Song 
With star-like virtue in its place may shines- 
Shedding benignaiit influence, and secure, 
Ifaelf, from all malevolent effect 
Of those mutations that extend their sway 
Throughout the nether sphere!— And if with tMs'- 
Imix more lowly matter; with the thing 
Gontemplatedj describe the- Mind' and Man' 
Contem^plating ; and who, and whathe was"^ 
The transitory Being that beheld 
This Vision; when and where, and how he EYed r 
Be not this labor useless. If such theme 
lifay sort with highest objects, then — dread PoWM' 
Whose gi-acious favor is the primal som'ce 
Of all illuminatioa — may my Life 
Express the image of a better time, 
More wise desires, and simpler manners ;— Burse' 
Illy heart in genuine freedom : — all pure thoughts 
Be with me ; — so shall thy unfailing love 
GsMe, and support, aad cheer rae to Uie enS-F 



EX€UIISI©' 



BOOK FIEST. 



'TM.E WAJUBJE^REMu 



THE WAlSTBERER 



ARGUMENT. 



h SoMmer PoreBoon— The Author reaches & iTiined Cottage lipott a 
Common, and there meets with a revered Mend, the Wanderer, of 
whose education and course of life he gives an account.— The Wan- 
derer, while resting under the sha.de of the trees that surround the 
Cottage, r^ates the History of its last Inhabitant. 

>rp WAS summer, and the sun had mounted high : 

-*- Southward the landscape indistinctly glared 
Through a pale steam ; but all the northern downs. 
In clearest air ascending, showed far off 
A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung 
From brooding clouds ; shadows that lay in spots 
Determined and unmoved, with steady beams 
Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed ; 
To him most pleasant who on soft cool moss 
Extends his careless limbs along the front 
Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts 
A twilight of its own, an ample shade 
Where the wren warbles, while the dreaming man, 
Half conscious of the soothing melody, 
With side-long eye looks out upon the scene, 
By power of that impending covert, thrown, 
To finer distance. Mine was at that hour 
2* ii 



MftMMOiMMbM 



18 THE EXCURSION, 

Far other lot, yet with good hope that sooH; 
Under a shade as gi-ateful I should find 
Kest, and be welcomed there to livelier joy. 
Across a hare wide Confimon I was toiling 
With languid steps that by the slippery turf 
Were baffled ; nor could my weak arm disperse' 
The host of insects gathering round my face. 
And ever with nie as I paced along; 

Upon that open moorland stood a grove, 
The wished-for port to which my course was bofUBcE, 
Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom 
Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms. 
Appeared a roofless Hut ; four naked walls 
Tliat stared upon each other ! — I looked roimd^r 
And to my wish and to my hope espied 
The Friend I sought ; a man of reverend age,. 
But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired. 
There was he seen upon the cottage-bench,. 
Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep ; 
An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. 

Him had I marked the day before — alone 
And stationed in the public way, with face 
Turned toward the sun then setting, while that staflf 
Afibrded, to the figure of the man 
Detained for contemplation or repose,. 
Graceful support ; his countenance as be stood 
Was hidden from nr.y view, and he remained 
Unrecognized ; but, stricken by the sight. 
With slackened footsteps I advanced, and soon- 
A glad congratulation we exchanged 
At such unthought-of meeting. — For the nigjst 
We parted, nothing willingly ; aud now 



THE WANDERER. 19, 

He by appointment waited for me here, 
Under the covert of these clustering elms. 

We were tried Friends : amid a pleasant vale, 
In the antique market-village where was passed 
My school-time, an apartment he had owned, 
To which at intervals the Wanderer drew, 
And found a kind of home or harbor there. 
He loved me ; from a swarm of rosy boys 
Singled out me, as he in sport would say, 
For my grave looks, too thoughtful for my years. 
As I grew up, it was my best dehght 
To be his chosen comrade. Many a time, 
On holidays, we rambled through the woods : 
We sate — we walked ; he pleased me with report 
Of things which he had seen ; and often touched 
Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind 
Turned inward ; or at my request would sing 
Old songs, the product of his native hills ; 
A skilful distribution of sweet sounds, 
Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed 
As cool refreshing water, by the care 
Of the industrious husbandman, diffused 
Through a parched meadow-ground, in time of 

drought. 
Still deeper welcome found his pure discourse : 
How precious when in riper days I learned 
To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice 
In tlie plain presence of his dignity ! 

Oh ! many are the Poets that are sown 
By Nature ; men endowed with highest gifts, 
The vision and the faculty divine ; 



20 THE EXCURSION. 

Yet wantifig tJae accomplishment of verse, 

(Which, in the docile season of their youth, 

It was denied them to acquire, through lack 

Of culture and the inspiring aid of books, 

Or haply hy a temper too severe, 

Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame) 

Nor having e'er, as life advanced, been led 

By circumstance to take unto the height 

The measure of themselves, these favored beings. 

All but a scattered few, live out their time, 

Husbanding that which they possess within, 

And go to the grave unthought of. Strongest minds 

Are often those of whom the noisy world 

Hears least ; else surely this Man had not left 

His graces unrevealed and unproclaimed. 

But, as the mind was filled with inward light. 

So not without distinction had he lived. 

Beloved and honored — far as he was known. 

And some small portion of his eloquent speech. 

And something that may serve to set in view 

The feeling pleasures of his loneliness, 

His observations, and the thoughts his mind 

Had dealt with — I will here record in verse ; 

Wliich, if with truth it correspond, and sink 

Or rise as venerable Nature leads, 

The high and tender Muses shall accept 

With gracious smile, deliberately pleased, 

And listening Time reward with sacred praise. 

Among the hills of Athol he was born ; 
Where, on a small hereditary farm. 
An unproductive slip of rugged ground, 
His Parents, with their numerous offspring, dwelt* 



THE WANDERER. 21 

A virtuous household, though exceeding poor ! 
Pure hvers were they all, austere and grave. 
And fearing God ; the very children taught 
Stern self-respect, a reverence for God's word, 
And an habitual piety, maintained 
With strictness scarcely known on English ground. 

From liis sixth year, the Boy of whom I speak, 
In summer, tended cattle on the hills ; 
But, through the inclement and the periloiis day 
Of long-continuing winter, he repaired. 
Equipped with satchel, to a school, that stood 
Sole building on a mountain's dreary edge. 
Remote from view of city spire, or soimd 
Of minster clock ! From that bleak tenement 
He, many an evening, to his distant home 
In sohtude returning, saw the hills 
Grow larger in the darkness ; all alone 
Beheld the stars come out above his head. 
And travelled through the wood, with no one near 
To whom he might confess the things he saw. 

So the foundations of his mind were laid. 
In such communion, not from terror free. 
While yet a child, and long before his time, 
Had he perceived the presence and the power 
Of greatness ; and deep feelings had impressed 
So vividly great objects, that they lay 
Upon his mind like substances, whose presence 
Perplexed the bodily sense. He had received 
A precious gift ; for, as he grew in years. 
With these impressions would he still compare 
All his remembrances, thoughts, shapes, and forms ; 



22 THE EXCURSION. 

And, being still unsatisfied with aught 

Of dimmer character, he thence attained 

An active power to fasten images 

Upon his brain ; and on their pictured lines 

Intensely brooded, even till they acquired 

The liveliness of dreams. Nor did he fail. 

While yet a child, with a child's eagerness 

Incessantly to turn his ear and eye 

On all things which the moving seasons brought 

To feed such appetite — nor this alone 

Appeased his yearning : — in the after-day 

Of boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn, 

And 'mid the hollow depths of naked crags 

He sate, and even in their fixed lineaments. 

Or from the power of a peculiar eye. 

Or by creative feeling overborne, 

Or by predominance of thought oppressed. 

Even in their fixed and steady lineaments 

He traced an ebbing and a flowing mind. 

Expression ever varying ! 

Thus informed. 
He had smaU need of books ; for many a tale 
Traditionary, round the mountains hung. 
And many a legend, peopling the dark woods. 
Nourished Imagination in her growth, 
And gave the Mind that apprehensive power 
By which she is made quick to recognize 
The moral properties and scope of things. 
But eagerly he read, and read again, 
Whate'er the minister's old shelf supplied ; 
The life and death of martyrs, who sustained, 
With will inflexible, those fearful pangs 
Triumphantly displayed in records left 



THEWANDEEER. 23 

Of persecution, and the Covenant — times 

Whose echo rings through Scotland to this hour ! 

And there, by lucky hap, had been preserved 

A straggling volume, torn and incomplete. 

That left half-told the preternatural tale, 

Romance of giants, chronicle of fiends. 

Profuse in garniture of wooden cuts 

Strange and uncouth ; dire faces, figures dire, 

Sharp-kneed, sharp-elbowed, and lean-ankled too. 

With long and ghostly shanks — forms which once seen 

Could never be forgotten ! 

In his heart. 
Where Fear sate thus, a cherished visitant. 
Was wanting yet the pure delight of love 
By sound diff'used, or by the breathing an-, 
Or by the silent looks of happy things. 
Or flowing from the universal face 
Of earth and sky. But he had felt the power 
Of Nature, and already was prepared. 
By his intense conceptions, to receive 
Deeply the lesson deep of love which he, 
WTiom Nature, by whatever means, has taught 
To feel uitensely, cannot but receive. 

Such was the Boy — but for the growing Youth 
What soul was his, when, from the naked top 
Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun 
Rise up, and bathe the world in light ! He looked— - 
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay 
Beneath him: — Far and wide the clouds were 

touched. 
And in their silent faces could he read 



24 THE EXCURSION. 

Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 
Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank 
The spectacle : sensation, soul, and form, 
All melted into him ; they swallowed up 
His animal being ; in them did he live, 
And by them did he live ; they were his life. 
In such access of mind, in such high hour 
Of visitation from the living God, 
Thought was not ; in enjoyment it expired. 
No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request ; 
Rapt into still communion that transcends 
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise. 
His mind was a thanksgiving to the power 
That made him ; it was blessedness and love ! 

A Herdsman on the lonely mountam tops, 
Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 
Was his existence oftentimes possessed. 
then how beautiful, how bright, appeared 
The written promise ! Early had he learned 
To reverence the volume that displays 
The mystery, the life which cannot die ; 
But in the mountains did he feel his faith. 
All things, responsive to the writing, there 
Breathed immortality, revolving life, 
And greatness still revolving ; infinite : 
There littleness was not ; the least of things 
Seemed infinite ; and there his spirit shaped 
Her prospects, nor did he believe, — ^he saw. 
What wonder if his being thus became 
Subhme and comprehensive ! Low desires. 
Low thoughts had there no place : yet was his heart 
Lowly ; for he was meek in gratitude, 



THEWANDERER. 2S 

Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind, 
And whence they flowed; and from them he ac- 
quired 
Wisdom, which works through patience ; thence he 

learned 
In oft-recurring hours of sober thought 
To look on Nature with a humble heart, 
Self-questioned where it did not understand. 
And with a, superstitious eye of love. 

So passed the time ; yet to the nearest town 
He duly went with what small overplus 
His earnings might supply, and brought away 
The book that most had tempted his desires 
While at the stall he read. Among the hills 
He gazed upon that mighty orb of song, 
The divine Milton. Lore of different kind, 
The annual savings of a toilsome life. 
His School-master supplied ; books that explain 
The purer elements of truth involved 
In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe, 
(Especially perceived where nature droops 
And feeling is suppressed) preserve the mind 
Busy in solitude and poverty. 
These occupations oftentimes deceived 
The listless hours, while in the hollow vale. 
Hollow and green, he lay on the green turf 
In pensive idleness. What could he do. 
Thus daily thirsting, in that lonesome life. 
With bhnd endeavors ? Yet, still uppermost, 
Nature was at his heart as if he felt. 
Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power 
In all things that from her sweet influence 
3 



SB' THE. EXCtJ'RSIO-K.- 

Might tend to weaB liinx, Therefore with her ^knesj, 
Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms. 
He elothed the nakedness of austere' truth,. 
While yet he- lingered in the rudiments- 
Of science, and among her simplest laws. 
His triangles- — they were the stars of heavenj^ 
The silent stars i Oft did he take dehght 
To measure the altitude of some tall crag. 
That is the eagle's birth-placei or som'e peafe 
Familiar with forgotten years,« that shows- 
Inscribed upon its visionary sides. 
The history of m'any a winter storm; 
Or obscure records of the path- of fire; 

And thus before his eighteenth year was told,- 
Accumulated feelings pressed his heart 
"With still increasing weight ; he was o'erpoweredJ 
By ISTature ; b*y the turbulence subdued 
Of his own mind ; by mystery and hope;, 
And the first virgin passion of a soul 
Communing with- the glorious universe. 
Full often wished he that the winds might rage 
When they were sileat : far more fondly Etow 
Than in his earlier season did he love 
Tempestuous nights — ^the conflict and the sounds^ 
That live in darkness. From his intellect 
And from the stillness of abstracted thought 
He asked repose j and, failing oft to win 
The peace required, he scanned the laws of ligM 
Amid the roar of torrents, where they send- 
From hollow clefts up to the clearer air 
A cloud of mist, that smitten by the sun 
Varies its rainbow hues. But vainly thus,. 



T H E W A N B E R E R . 27 



An€ vainly by all other means, he strove 
To mitie-ate the fever of his heart. 



In dreams, in study, and in ardent theuglitj 
Thus was he reared ; much wanting to assist 
The growth of intellect, yet gaining more. 
And every moral feeling of his scul 
Strengthened and braced, by breathing in content 
The keen, the wholesome air of poverty, 
And drinking from the well of homely life. 
— But, from past hberty, and tried restraints. 
He now was summoned to select the course 
Of humble industry that promised best 
To yield him no unworthy maintenance. 
Urged by his Mother, he essayed to teach 
A village-school — but wandering thoughts were then 
A misery to him ; and the Youth resigned 
A task he was unable to perform. 

That stern yet kindly Spirit, who constrains 
The Savoyard to quit his naked rocks. 
The free-born Swiss to leave his narrow vales, 
(Spirit attached to regions mountainous 
Like their own stedfast clouds) did now impel 
His restless mind to look abroad with hope. 
— An irksome drudgery seems it to plod on, 
Throvigh hot and dusty ways, er pelting storm, 
A vagrant Merchant under a heavy load 
Bent as he moves, and needing frequent rest ; 
Yet do sueh travellers find their own delight ; 
And their hard service, deemed debasing now, 
^mned merited restpeot ia simpler times.; 



28 THE EXCURSION. 

When squire^ and priest, and tliey who round them 

dwelt 
In rustic sequestration — all dependent 
Upon the Pedlar's toil — supplied their wants, 
Or pleased their fancies with the wares he brought. 
Not ignorant was the Youth that still no few 
Of his adventurous countrymen were led 
By perseverance in this track of life 
To competence and ease : — to him it offered 
Attractions manifold ; — and this he chose. 
— His Parents on the enterprise bestowed 
Their farewell benediction, but with hearts 
Foreboding evil. From his native hills 
He wandered far ; much did he see of men. 
Their manners, their enjoyments, and pursuits^ 
Their passions and their feelings ; chiefly those 
Essential and eternal in the heart. 
That, 'mid the simpler forms of rural Kfe, 
Exist more simple in their elements. 
And speak a plainer language.'' In the wood^ 
A lone enthusiast, and among the fields,. 
Itinerant in this labour, he had passed 
The better portion of his time ; and there. 
Spontaneously had his affections thriven 
Amid the bounties of the year, the peace 
And liberty of nature ; there he kept 
In solitude and solitary thought 
His mind in a just equipoise of love. 
Serene it was, unclouded by the cares. 
Of ordinary life ; unvexed, unwarped 
By partial bondage. In his steady coorsCi. 
No piteous revolutions had he felt, 
No wild varieties of joy and grief. 



„.^J 



THBWANDEREK.. S$ 

Unoccupied by sorrow of its ewn, 

His heart lay open ; and, by nature tuned 

And constant disposition of Ms thoughts 

To sympathy with man, he was aJive 

To all that was enjoyed where'er he went, 

And all that was endured ; for, in himself 

Happy, and quiet in his cheerfulness, 

He had no painful pressure from without 

That made him turn aside from wretchedness 

With coward fears. He could afford to suffer 

With those whom he saw suffer, Hence it came 

That in our best experience he was rich, 

And in the wisdom of our daily life. 

For hence, minutely, in his various rounds, 

He had observed the progress and decay 

Of many minds, of minds and bodies too ; 

The history of many families ; 

How they had prospered ; how they were o'erthrown 

By passion or mischance, or such misrule 

Among the unthinking masters of the earth 

As makes the nations groan. 

This active course 
He followed till provision for his wants 
Had been obtained ; the Wanderer then resolved 
To pass the remnant of his days, untasked 
With needless services, from hardship free. 
His calling laid aside, he lived at ease ; 
But still he loved to pace the public roads 
And the wild paths ; and, by the summer's warmth 
Invited, often would he leave his home 
A.nd journey far, revisiting the scenes 
That to his memory were most endeared. 
— Vigorous in health, of hopeful spirits, undamped 
3* 







"" 




so THE EXCURSION. 




By worldly-mindedness or anxious care ; 
Observant, studious, thoughtful and refreshed 






By knowledge gathered up from day to day j 
Thus had he lived a long and kmocent life. 






The Scottish Church, both on himself and those 






With whom from childhood he grew up, had held 






The strong hand of her purity ; and still 
Had watched him with an unrelenting eye.. 






This he remembered in his riper age 






With gratitude, and reverential thoughts. 






But by the native vigor of his mind. 






By his habitual wanderings out of doors,, 






By loneliness, and goodness, and kind works. 






Whate'er, in docile childhood or in youth. 






' He had imbibed of fear or darker thought 






Was melted all away ; so true was this. 






That sometimes his religion seemed to me 






Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods ; 






Who to the model of his own pure heart 






Shaped his belief, as grace divine inspired. 
And human reason dictated with awe. 






— And surely never did there live on earth 






A man of kindlier nature. The rough sports. 






And teasing ways of children vexed not him ; 






Indulgent listener was he to the tongue 






Of garrulous age ; nor did the sick man's tale. 






To his fraternal sympathy addressed. 
Obtain reluctant hearing. 






Plain bis garb; 
Such as might suit a rustic Sire, prepared 
For sabbath duties ; yet he was a man 






Whom no one could have passed without remark. 








__ 



THE WANDERER. 31 

Active and nervous was his gait ; his limbs 

And his whole figure breathed intelligence. 

Time had compressed the freshness of his cheek 

Into a narrower circle of deep red, 

But had not tamed his eye ; that, under brows 

Shaggy and grey, had meanings which it brought 

From years of youth ; which, like a Being made 

Of many Beings, he had wondrous skill 

To blend with knowledge of the years to come, 

Human, or such as lie beyond the grave. 



So was He framed ; and such his course of life 
Who now, with no appendage but a staff, 
The prized memorial of relinquished toils, 
Upon that cottage-bench reposed his limbs, 
Screened from the sun. Supine the Wanderer lay, 
His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut, 
The shadows of the breezy elms above 
Dappling his face. He had not heard the sound 
Of my approaching steps, and in the shade 
Unnoticed did I stand some minutes' space. 
At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat 
Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim 
Had newly scooped a running stream. He rose 
And ere our lively greeting into peace 
Had settled, " 'Tis," said I, " a burning day : 
My lips are parched with thirst, but you, it seems, 
Have somewhere found relief." He, at the word. 
Pointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me chmb 
The fence where that aspiring shrub looked out 
Upon the public way. It was a plot 
Of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds 



S2 THE EXCURSION. 

Marked witli the steps of those, whom, as they 

passed. 
The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank slips, 
Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems, 
In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap 
The broken wall. I looked around, and there. 
Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs 
Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a well 
Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. 
My thirst I slaked, and, from the cheerless spot 
Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned 
Where sate the old Man on the cottage-bench ; 
And, while, beside him, with uncovered head, 
I yet was standing, freely to respire, 
And cool my temples in the fanning air, 
Thus did he speak. ■" I see around me here 
Things which you cannot see : we die, my Friend, 
iNor we alone, but that which each man loved 
And prized in his peculiar nook of earth 
Dies with him, or is changed ; and very soon 
Even of the good is no memorial left. 
— The Poets, in their elegies and songs 
Lamenting the departed, call the groves, 
They call upon the hills and streams to mourn, 
And senseless rocks ; nor idly ; for they speak. 
In these their invocations, with a voice 
Obedient to the strong creative power 
Of human passion. Sympathies there are 
More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, 
That steal upon the meditative mind. 
And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood, 
And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel 
One sadness, they and L For them a bond 



THE WANDERER. 33 

Of brottierliood is broken : time has been 
When, every day, the touch of human hand 
Dislodged the natm-al sleep that binds them up 
In mortal stillness ; and they ministered 
To human comfort. Stooping down to drink. 
Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied 
The useless fragment of a wooden bowl, 
Green with the moss of years, and subject only 
To the soft handling of the elements : 
There let it lie — how foolish are such thoughts ! 
Forgive them ; — never — never did my steps 
Approach this door but she who dwelt within 
A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her 
As my own child. Oh, Sir ! the good die first, 
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust 
Burn to the socket. Many a passenger 
Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks, 
When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn 
From that forsaken spring ; and no one came 
But he was welcome ; no one went away 
But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead, 
The light extinguished of her lonely hut. 
The hut itself abandoned to decay, 
And she forgotten in the quiet grave. 

I speak," continued he, " of one whose stock 
Of virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof. 
She was a Woman of a steady mind, 
Tender and deep in her excess of love ; 
Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy 
Of her own thoughts : by some especial care 
Her temper had been framed, as if to make 
A Being, who by adding love to peace 



34 THE EXCURSION. 

Might live on earth a life of happiness. 

Her wedded Partner lacked not on his side 

The humble worth that satisfied her heart : 

Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal 

Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell 

That he was often seated at his loom. 

In summer, ere the mower was abroad 

Among the dewy grass — in early spring. 

Ere the last star had vanished. — They who passed 

At evening, from behind the garden fence 

Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply, 

After his daily work, until the light 

Had failed, and every leaf and flower were lost 

In the dark hedges. So their days were spent 

In peace and comfort ; and a pretty boy 

Was their best hope, next to the God in heaven. 

Not twenty years ago, but you I think 
Can scarceljr bear it now in mind, there came 
Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left 
With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add 
A worse affliction in the plague of war : 
This happy Land was stricken to the heart ! 
A Wanderer then amonsc the cottages, 
I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw 
The hardships of that season : many rich 
Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor ; 
And of the poor did many cease to be. 
And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridged 
Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled 
To numerous self-denials, Margaret 
Went struggling on through those calamitous years 
With cheerful hope, until the second autumn, 



THE WANDERER. 3» 

When lier life's Helpmate on a sick-bed lay, 

Smitten with perilous fever. In disease 

He lingered long ; and, when his strength returned, 

He found the little he had stored^ to meet 

The hour of accident or crippling age, 

Was all consumed. A second infant now 

Was added to the troubles of a time 

Laden, for them and all of their degree, 

With care and sorrow : shoals of artizans, 

From ill-requited labor turned adrift. 

Sought daily bread from public charity, 

They, and their wives and children — happier far 

Could they have lived as do the little birds 

That peck along the hedge-rows, or the kite 

That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks ! 

A sad reverse it was for him who long 
Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace, 
This lonely Cottage. At the door he stood, 
And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes 
That had no mirth in them ; or with his knife 
Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks — 
Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook 
In house or garden, any casual work 
Of use or ornament ; and with a strange, 
Amusing, yet uneasy novelty. 
He mingled, where he might, the various tasks 
Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. 
But this endured not; his good humor soon 
Became a weight in which no pleasure was : 
And poverty brought on a petted mood 
And a sore temper : day by day he drooped, 
Anu he would leave his work — and to the town 



36 THE EXCURSION. 

Would turn without an errand his slack steps ; 
Or wander here and there among the fields^ 
One while he would speak lightly of his babes, 
And with a cruel tongue : at other times 
He tossed them with a false unnatural joy : 
And 't was a rueful thing to see the looks 
Of the poor innocent children. ' Every smile/ 
Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees, 
' Made my heart bleed.' " 

At this the "Wanderer paused ; 
And, looking up to those enormous elms, 
He said, " 'T is now the hour of deepest noon. 
At this still season of repose and peace. 
This hour when all things which are not at rest 
Are cheerful ; while this multitude of flies 
With tuneful hum is filling all the air ; 
Why should a- tear be on an old Man's cheek ? 
Why should we thus, with an untoward mind, 
And in the weakness of humanity, 
From natural wisdom tvim our hearts away ; 
To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears ; 
And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb 
The calm of nature with our restless thoughts ! 



He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone : 
But, when he ended, there was in his face 
Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild. 
That for a little time it stole away 
All recollection ; and that simple tale 
Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound. 
A while on trivial things we held discourse. 
To me soon tasteless. In my own despite. 





THE WANDERER. 37 




I thonglit of that poor Woman as of one 




Whom I had known and loved. He had rehearsed 




Her homely tale with such familiar power, 




With such an active countenance, an eye 




So busy, that the things of which he spake 




Seemed present ; and, attention now relaxed. 




A heartfelt chillness crept along my veins. 




I rose ; and, having left the breezy shade, 




Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun. 




That had not cheered me long — ere, looking round 




Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned. 




And begged of the old Man that, for my sake. 




He would resimae his story. 




He replied, 




*' It were a wantonness, and would demand 




Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts 




Could hold vain dalliance with the misery 




Even of the dead ; contented thence to draw 




A momentary pleasure, never marked 




By reason, barren of all future good. 




But we have known that there is often found 




In mournful thoughts, and always might be found. 




A power to virtue friendly ; were 't not so, 




I am a dreamer among men, indeed 




An idle dreamer ! 'T is a common tale. 




An ordinary sorrow of man's life. 




A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed 




In bodily form. — But without further bidding 




I will proceed. 




While thus it fared with them, 




To whom this cottage, till those hapless years. 




Had been a blessed home, it was my chance 

4 i 


; 



38 THE EXGFESION. 

To travel in a country far rettiote ; 

And when these Tofty' elms once more* appeared' 

Wliat pleasant expectations lured me on 

O'er the flat Common !— With quick step I reached 

The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch ; 

But, when I entered, Margaret looked at me 

A little while ; then turned her head away 

Speechless, — ^and, sitting down upow a chair. 

Wept bitterly. I wist not tfhat to do> 

Nor how to speak to her. Poor Wretch ! at last 

She rose from off her seat^ and then,— Sir ! 

I cannot tell how she pronounced my name :— 

With fervent love, and with a face of grief 

Unutterably helpless, and a look 

That seemed to cling upon me, she inquired 

If I had seen her husband. As she spake 

A strange surprise and fear came to my hearty 

Nor had I power to answer ere she told 

That he had disappeared — not two months gone. 

He left his house : two wretched days had past^ 

And on the third, as wistfully she raised 

Her head from off her pillow, to look forth^ 

Like one in trouble, for returning light, 

Within her chamber-casement she espied 

A folded paper, lying as if placed 

To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly 

She opened — found no writing, but beheld 

Pieces of money carefully enclosed, 

Silver and gold, ' I shuddered at the sight,^ 

Said Margaret, ' for I knew it was his hand 

That must have placed it there ,' and ere that day 

Was ended, that long anxious day, I learned, 

From one who by my husband had been sent 



THE WANDERER. 39 

Wifh tlie sad n«ws, tliat he had joined a troop 
Of soldiers, going to a distant laud. 
— He left me thus — he could not gather hieart 
To talse a farewell of me ; for he feared 
That I should follow with my babes, and siak 
Beneath "the misery of that wandering life.' 

This tale did Margaret tell with many tears: 
And, when she ended, I had little power 
To give her comfort, and was glad to take 
Sueh words of hope from her own mouth as served 
To cheer -us both. But long we had not talked 
Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, 
And with a bright'er eye she looked around 
As if she had been shedding teai-s of joy. 
We parted. — -"'Twas the time of early spring; 
I left her busy with her garden tools ; 
Arid vrell remember, o'er that fence she looked. 
And, while I paced along the foot-way path, 
CI ailed out, and sent a blessing after me, 
With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice 
That -seemed the very sound of happy thoughts. 

I roved o'er many a hill and many a daile, 
With my accustomed load ; in heat and cold, 
Thi^ugh many a wood and many an open ground^ 
In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, 
Drooping or 'blithe of heart, as inight befal; 
My best eorapariions now the driving winds, 
And now the ' trotting brooks' and whispering trees. 
And new the music of my own sad steps, 
With many a short-lived thought that passed between, 
%_ad disappeared. 



40 THE EXCURSION. 

I journeyed back this ■way. 
When, m the warmth of midsummer, the wheat 
Was yellow ; and the soft and bladed grass, 
Springing afresh, had o'er the hay -field spread 
Its tender verdure.. At the door arrived, 
I found that she was absent. In the shade. 
Where now we sit, I waited her return. 
Her cottage, then a cheerful object, wore 
Its customary look, — only, it seemed. 
The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch. 
Hung down in heavier tufts ; and that bright weed. 
The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root 
Along the window's edge, profusely grew 
Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside. 
And strolled into her garden. It appeared 
To lag behind the season, and had lost 
Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift 
Had broken their trim border-lines, and straggled 
O'er paths they used to deck : carnations, once 
Prized for siu'passing beauty, and no less 
For the peculiar pains they had required. 
Declined their languid heads, wanting support. 
The cumbrous bind- weed, with its wreaths and beMs» 
Had twined about her two small rows of peas. 
And dragged them to the earth. 

Ere this an hour 
Was wasted. — Back I turned my restless steps ; 
A stranger passed ; and, guessing whom I sought> 
He said that she was used to ramble far. — 
The sun was sinking in the west ;; and now 
I sate with sad impatience. From within 
Her solitary infant cried aloud ; 
Then, like a blast that dies away self-stiile<^ 



THE WANDEREK. 41 

"The voice was silent. From the bench I rose ; 
But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts. 
The spot, though fair, was very desolate—- 
The longer I remained, more desolate : 
And, looking round me, now I first observed 
The corner stones, on either side the porch, 
With dull red stains discolored, and stuck o'er 
With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep. 
That fed upon the Common, thither came 
Familiarly, and found a couching-place 
Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows fell 
From these tall elms ; the cottage clock struck 

eight ; — 
I turned, and saw her distant a few steps. 
Her face was pale and thin — her figure, too, 
Was changed. As she unlocked the door, she said, 
* It grieves me you have waited here so long. 
But, in good truth, I Ve wandered much of late ; 
And, sometimes — to my shame I speak- — have need 
Of my best prayers to bring me back again.' 
While on the boai-d she spread our evening meal, 
She told me— interrupting not the work 
Which gave employment to her listless hands— 
That she had parted with her elder child ; 
To a kind master on a distant farm 
Now happily apprenticed. — * I perceive 
You look at me, and you have cause ; to-day 
I have been travelling far ; and many days 
About the fields I wander, knowing this 
Only, that what I seek I cannot find ; 
And so I waste my time : for I am changed ; 
And to myself,' said she, ' have done much wrong 
And to this helpless infant. I have slept 
4* 



^ THE EXCtJRSlON. 

Weeping, and weeping have I waked ; my tears^ 
Have flowed, as if my body were not sueli- 
As others are ; and I coald nevei- die. 
But I am now in mind and in my heart 
More easy • and I hope/ said she, ' that G-od' 
Will give me patience to endure the things 
Which I behold at home/ 

It \vouId have giieved' 
Your very soul to see her. Sir^- 1 feel 
The story Inger in my heart ; I fear 
'T is Inig and tedious ; but my spirit elmg9;= 
To that poor Woman : — so- familiarly 
Do I perceive her manner, and her look,- 
And presence ; and so deeply do I feel 
Her goodness, that, not seldom, in my wafe 
A momentary trance comes over me ; 
And to myself I seem to nmse on one !- 
By sorrow laid asleep ; or borne awayj^ 
A human being destined to awake 
To human life, or something very near 
To human life, when he shall come agairr' 
For whom she suffered. Yes, it would have gi'ieved 
Your very soul to see her : evermm-e 
Her eyelids drooped, her eyes downward wera casfej 
And, when she at her table gave me food. 
She did not look at me. Her voice w?is low,. 
Her body was subdued. In every act. 
Pertaining to her house affiiirs, appeared? 
The careless stillness of a thinking mind 
Self-occupied ; to which all outward thingS' 
Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed,. 
But yet no motion of the breast was seen. 
No heaving of the heart. While by the fire' 



THE WANDERER. 18 

We sate together, sighs came on my ear, 

I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. 

Ere my departure, to her cai-e I gave. 
For her son's use, some tokens of regard, 
Which with a look of welcome she received ; 
And I exhorted her to place her trust 
In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer, 
I took my staff, and, when I kissed her babe, 
The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then 
With the best hope and comfort I could give : 
She thanked me for my wish ; — but for my hope 
It seemed she did not thank me, 

I returned, 
And took my rounds along this road again 
When on its sunny bank the primrose flower 
Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the Spring. 
I found her sad and drooping : she had learned 
No tidings of her husband ; if he hved, 
She knew not that he hved ; if he were dead, 
She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same 
In person and appearance ; but her house 
Bespake a sleepy hand of neghgence ; 
The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth 
Was comfortless, and her small lot of books. 
Which, in the cottage- window, heretofore 
Had been piled up against the corner panes 
In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves 
Lay scattered here and there, open or shut, 
As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe 
Had from its Moth€r caught the trick of gi-ief, 
And sighed among its playthings. I withdrew. 
And once again entering the garden saw, 



14 THE EXCURSION. 

More plainly still, that poverty and grief 

Were now come nearer to her : weeds defaced 

The hardened soil, and knots of withered ffrass : 

No ridges there appeared of clear black mold, 

No winter greenness ; of her herbs and flowers> " 

It seemed the better part were gnawed away 

Or trampled into earth ; a chain of straw, 

Whitjh had been twined about the slender stem 

Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root; 

The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep. 

■ — Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms, 

And, noting that my eye was on the tree, 

She said, ' I fear it will be dead and gone 

Ere Robert come again.' When to the House 

We had returned together, she enquired 

If I had any hope : — but for her babe 

And for her little orphan boy, she said. 

She had no wish to live, that she must die 

Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom 

Still in its place ; his sundry garments hung 

Upon the self-same nail ; his very staff 

Stood undisturbed behind the door. 

And when, 
In bleak December, I retraced this way, 
She told me that her little babe was dead. 
And she was left alone. She now, released 
From her maternal cares, had taken up 
The employment common through these wilds, and 

gained. 
By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself; 
A.nd for this end had hired a neighbor's boy 
To give her needful help. That very time 
Most willing'ly she put her work aside, 



THE WANDERER. 45 

And walked with me along the miry road, 
Heedle.-:s how far ; and, in such piteous sort 
That any heart had ached to hear her, begged 
That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask 
For him whom she had lost. We parted then — 
Our final parting ; for from that time forth 
Did many seasons pass ere I returned 
Into this tract again. 

Nine tedious years ; 
From their first separation, nine long years. 
She lingered in unquiet widowhood ; 
A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been 
A sore heart- wasting ! I have heard,- my Friend, 
That in yon arbor oftentimes she sate 
Alone, through half the vacant sabbath day : 
And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit 
The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench 
For hours she sate ; and evermore her eye 
Was busy in the distance, shaping things 
That made her heart beat quick. You see that path. 
Now faint, — the grass has crept o'er its grey Hne ; 
There, to and fro, she paced through many a day 
Of the warm su.mmer, from a belt of hemp 
That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn thread 
With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed 
A man whose garments showed the soldier's red. 
Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb, 
The little child who sate to turn the wheel 
Ceased from his task ; and she with faltering voice 
Made many a fond enquiry ; and when they, 
Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by, 
Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate, 
That bars the traveller's road, she often stood, 



16 THE EXCURSION. 

And when a stranger horseman came, the latch 

Would lift, and in his face look wistfully : 

Most happy, if, from aught discovered there 

Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat 

The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut 

Sank to decay ; for he was gone, whose hand. 

At the first nipping of October frost, 

Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw 

Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived 

Through the long winter, reckless and alone ; 

Until her house, by frost, and thaw, and rain. 

Was sapped ; and while she slept, the nightly damps 

Did chill her breast ; and in the stormy day 

Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind, 

Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still 

She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds 

Have parted hence : and still that length of road. 

And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared. 

Fast-rooted at her heart ; and here, my Friend, — 

In sickness she remained ; and here she died ; 

Last human tenant of these ruined walls !" 

The old Man ceased : he saw that I was moved ; 
From that low bench, rising instinctively 
I turned aside in weakness, nor had power 
To thank him for the tale which he had told. 
I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall 
Reviewed that Woman's sufferings ; and it seemed 
To comfort me while with a brother's love 
I blessed her in the impotence of grief. 
Then towards the cottage I returned ; and traced 
Fondly, though with an interest more mild. 
That secret spuit of humanity 






THE WANDERER. G 

Whicli, 'mid the calm oblivious tendencies 

Of nature, 'mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers. 

And silent overgro wings, still survived. 

The old Man, noting this, resumed, and said, 

" My Friend ! enough to sorrow you have given, 

The purposes of wisdom ask no more : 

Nor more would she have craved as due to one 

Who, in her worst distress, had ofttimes felt 

The unbounded might of prayer ; and learned, with 

soul 
Fixed on the Cross> that consolation springs 
From sources deeper far than deepest pain^ 
For the meek Sufferer. Why then should we read 
The forms of things with an unworthy eye ? 
She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. 
I well remember that those very plumes. 
Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, 
By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er. 
As once I passed, into my heart conveyed 
So still an image of tranquillity. 
So calm and still, and looked so beautiful 
Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind, 
That what we feel of sorrow and despair 
From ruin and from change, and all the grief 
That passing shows of Being leave behind. 
Appeared an idle dream, that could maintain, 
Nowhere, dominion o'er the enlightened spirit 
Whose meditative sympathies repose 
Upon the breast of Faith. I turned away. 
And walked along my road in happiness." 

He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot 
A slant and mellow radiance, which began 



-1 



48 THE EXCURSION. 

To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees. 
We sate on that low bench : and now we felt, 
Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on, 
A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, 
A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, 
At distance heard, peopled the milder air. 
The old Man rose, and, with a sprightly mien 
Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staflp ; 
Together casting then a farewell look 
Upon those silent walls, we left the shade ; 
And, ere the stars were visible, had reached 
A village-inn,— our evening resting-place. 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK SECOND. 



THE SOLITARY. 



THE SOLTTA^X 



ARGUMENT.. 



'.¥he Author describes' his travels with the Waadwer, ■whose (SiaraCterls 
further 'tiusti'ated— 'Morning scene, and view of a Village 'Wake — 
Wanderer's acco\int of a Friend whom he purposes to visit — View, 
from an eminence, of the Valley which his Friend had chosen for his 
retreat — Sound of singing from below — afimeral procession — Descent 
into the Valley — Observations drawn from the Wanderer at -sight of a 
■book accidentally discov-ered in a recess in the Valley — Meeting with 
the Wanderer's friend, the Solitary— ^Wanderei''s desci-iption of the 
mode of burial in this mountainous district — Solitary contrasts with 
this, that of the individual carried a few jninutes before from the 
cottage— The cottage entered— Description of the Solitai-y's apai't- 
ment — Repast there — ^Vifiw, from the window, of two mountaia 
summits; and tiie SoUtary's description of the companionship they 
afford him — Account of the departed inmate of the cottage — Descrip- 
tion of a grand spectacle upon the mociitains, with its «ffeot upon the 
Solitary's mind — Leave the house. 

TN" days cf yore how fortunattsly 'fared 

The Minstrel ! wandering on from hall to halls 
•Baronial court or royal ; cheered with gifts 
Munificent, and love, and ladies' praise ; 
Now meeting on his road an armed knight, 
IS'ow resting with a 'pilgrim 'by the side 
'Of a clear bro<]ik : beneath an abbey's roof 
One evening sumptuously lodged; the 'UesEt, 
Humbly in a roligioas hospital.; 
^1 



52 THE EXCURSION. 

Or with some merry outlaws of the wood ; 

Or haply shrouded in a hermit's cell. 

Him, sleeping or awake, the robber spared ; 

He walked — protected from the sword of war 

By virtue of that sacred instrument 

His harp, suspended at the traveller's side ; 

His dear companion wheresoe'er he went 

Opening from land to land an easy way 

By melody, and by the charm of verse. 

Yet not the noblest of that honored Race 

Drew happier, loftier, more empassioned, thoughts 

From his long journeyings and eventful life. 

Than this obscure Itinerant had skill 

To gather, ranging through the tamer ground 

Of these our unimaginative days ; 

Both while he trod the earth in humblest guise 

Accoutred with his burthen and his staff; 

And now, when free to move with lighter pace. 

What wonder, then, if I, whose favorite school 
Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes, . 
Looked on this g-uide with reverential love? 
Each with the other pleased, we now pursued 
Our journey, under favorable skies. 
Turn wheresoe'er we would, he was a light 
Unfailing : not a hamlet could we pass. 
Rarely a house, that did not yield to him 
Remembrances ; or from his tongue call forth 
Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard 
Accompanied those strains of apt discourse. 
Which nature's various objects might inspire; 
And in the silence of his f;xce I read 
His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts. 



I 



tHE SOLITARY. 53 

■Ani. the mute fish that glances in the stt<eam^ 
And hai-mless reptile coiling in the stin> 
And gorgeous insect hovering in the air, 
The fowl domestic, and the household dog^^ 
In his capacious mind, he loved them all : 
Their rights acknowledging he felt for all. 
Oft was occasion given me to perceive 
How the calm pleasures of the pasturing herd 
To happy contemplation soothed his walk ; 
How the poor brute's condition, forced to run 
Its course of suffering in the public road, 
Sad contrast ! all too often smote his heart 
With unavailing pity. Rich in love 
And sweet humanity, he was, himself) 
To the degree that he desired, beloved. 
Smiles of good-will from faces that he kne-W 
Greeted us all day long ; we took our seats 
By many a cottage-hearth, where he received 
The welcome of an Inmate from afar, 
And I at once forgot i was a Stranger. 
■ — Nor was he loth to enter ra^g-ed huts. 
Huts where his charity was blest ; his voice 
Heard as the voice of an experienced friend. 
And, sometimes — where the poor man held dispute 
With his own mind, unable to subdue 
Impatience through inaptness to perceive 
General distress in his particular lot ; 
Or cherishing resentment, or in vain 
Struggling against it ; with a soul perplexed, 
And finding in herself no steady power- 
To draw the line of comfort that divides 
Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven, 
From the injustice of our brother men— 
5* 



M THE EXCUBSION. 

To hint! appeal was made as to* a judge j 
Wlio, with an understanding' heart allayed' 
The perturbation ; listened to the plea ; 
Resolved the dubious point ; and sentence gave 
So grounded, so applied, that it was heard 
With softened spirit;^ evere when it eondemiied. 

Such intercourse I witnessed, while we roveclf 
JSTow as Ms choice drreeted, now as nsine ^ 
Or both,, with equal readiness of will, 
Our course submitting to the changeful breeze- 
Of accident. But when the rising sun 
Had three tiroes called us to renew our walk;^ 
My Fellow-traveller, with earnest voice. 
As if the thought were but a moment old;. 
Claimed absolute dominion for the day. 
We started — ^and he led me toward the hills 
Up through an ample vale, with higher billa 
Before us, mountain* stern and desolate ;. 
But, in the majesty of distance, now 
Set off, and to our ken appearing fair 
Of aspect, with aerial softness elad. 
And. beautified with morning's pwple beams'^ 

The wealthy, the luxurious, Ibj the stress- 
Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their tinaev 
May roll in chariots, o** provoke the hoofs 
Of the fleet coursei-s they bestride, to raise- 
From earth the dust of morning, slow to rise ^ 
And they, if blest with health and hearts at ease^, 
Shall lack not their enjoyment : — but how faint 
Compared with ours ! who, pacing side by side;. 
Could, with an eye of leisure, look cm. all 



THE SOLITARY. 55 

That we beheld ; and lend the listening sense 
To every grateful sound of earth and air ; 
Pausing at will — our spirits braced, our thoughts 
Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown, 
And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves. 

Mount slowly, sun t that we may journey long, 
By this dark hill protected from thy beams I 
Such is the summer pilgrim's frequent wish 
But quickly from among our morning thoughts 
'Twas chased away : for, toward the western side 
Of the broad vale, casting a casual glance, 
We saw a throng of people ;— wherefore met ? 
Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose 
On the thrilled ear, and flags uprising, yield 
Prompt answer ; they proclaim the annual Wake, 
Which the bright season favors. — Tabor and pipe 
In purpose join to hasten or reprove 
The laggard Rustic ; and repay with boons 
Of merriment a party-colored knot. 
Already formed upon the village-green, 
— Beyond the limits of the shadow cast 
By the broad hill, glistened upon our sight 
That gay assemblage. Round them and above, 
Glitter, with dark recesses interposed. 
Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of trees 
Half' veiled in vapory cloud, the silver steam 
Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs 
By the strong sunbeams smitten. Like a mast 
Of gold, the Maypole shines ; as if the rays 
Of morning, aided by exhaling dew. 
With gladsome influence could re-animate 
The faded garlands dangling from its sides. 




S6 THE EXCUKSION. 

Said I, " The music and the sprightly scene 
Invite us ; shall we quit our road, and join 
These festive matins ?" — He replied, " Not loth 
To linger I would here with you partake, 
Not one hour merely, but till evening's close. 
The simple pastimes of the day and place. 
By the fleet Racers, ere the sun be set. 
The turf of yon large pasture will be skimmed ; 
There, too, the lusty Wrestlers shall contend : 
But know we not that he, who intermits 
The appointed task and duties of the day> 
Untunes full oft the pleasures of the day ; 
Checking the finer spirits that refuse 
To flow, when purposes are lightly changed ? 
A length of journey yet remains untraced : 
Let us proceed," Then, pointing with his staff 
Raised toward those craggy summits, his intent 
He thus imparted :■ — 

" In a spot that lies 
Among yon mountain fastnesses concealed. 
You will receive, before the hour of noon, 
Good recompense, I hope, for this day's toil, 
From sight of One who lives secluded there, 
Lonesome and lost : of whom, and whose past life, 
(Not to forestall such knowledge as may be 
More faithfully collected from himself) 
This brief communication shall suffice. 

Though now sojourning there, he, like myself. 
Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage 
Among the wilds of Scotland, in a tract 
Where many a sheltered and well-tended plant, 
Bears, on the humblest ground of social life, 



THE SOLITARY. 57 

Blossoms of piety and innocence. 

Such grateful promises his youth displayed : 

And, having shown in study forward zeal, 

He to the Ministry was duly called ; 

And straight, incited by a curious mind 

Filled with vague hopes, he undertook the charge 

Of Chaplain to a military troop, 

Cheered by the Highland bagpipe, as they marched 

In plaided vest, — his fellow-countrymen. 

This office filling, yet by native power 

And force of native inclination made 

An intellectual ruler in the haunts 

Of social vanity, he walked the world. 

Gay, and affecting graceful gaiety ; 

Lax, buoyant — less a pastor with his flock 

Than a soldier among soldiers — ^lived and roamed 

Where Fortune led : — and Fortune, who oft proves 

The careless wanderer's friend, to him made known 

A blooming Lady — a conspicuous flower. 

Admired for beauty, for her sweetness praised ; 

Whom he had sensibility to love. 

Ambition to attempt, and skill to win. 

For this fair Bride, most rich in gifts of mind, 
Nor sparingly endowed with worldly wealth, 
His office he relinquished ; and retired 
From the world's notice to a rural home. 
Youth's season yet with him was scarcely past. 
And she was in youth's prime. How free their love, 
How full their joy ! 'Till, pitiable doom ! 
In the short course of one undreaded year, 
Peath blasted all. Death suddenly o'erthrew 
Two lovely Children — all that they possessed ! 



58 THE EXCURSION. 

The Mother followed : — miserably bare 
The one Survivor stood ; he wept, he prayed 
For his dismissal, day and night, compelled 
To hold communion with the grave, and face 
With pain the regions of eternity. 
An uncomplaining apathy displaced 
This anguish ; and, indifferent to delight, 
To aim and purpose, he consumed his days. 
To private interest dead, and public care. 
So lived he ; so he might have died. 

But now. 

To the wide world's astonishment, appeared 

A glorious opening, the vmlooked-for dawn. 

That promised everlasting joy to France ! 

Her voice of social transport reached even him ! 

He broke from his contracted bounds, repaired 

To the great City, an emporium then 

Of golden expectations, and receiving 

Freights every day from a new world of hope. 

Thither his popular talents he transferred ; 

And, from the pulpit, zealously maintained 

The cause of Christ and civil liberty. 

As one, and moving to one glorious end. 

Intoxicating service ! I might say 

A happy service ; for he was sincere 

As vanity and fondness for applause, 

And new and shapeless wishes, would allow. 

That righteous cause (such power hath freedom) 
bound. 
For one hostility, in friendly league. 
Ethereal natures and the worst of slaves ; 
Was served by rival advocates that came 



THE SOLITARY. 59 

From regions opposite as heaven and hell. 

One courage seemed to animate them all : 

And, from the dazzling conquests daily gained 

By their united elForts, there arose 

A proud and most presumptuous confidence 

In the transcendent wisdom of the age, 

And her discernment ; not alone in rights, 

And in the origin and bounds of power 

Social and temporal ; but in laws divine. 

Deduced by reason, or to faith revealed. 

An overweening trust was raised ; and fear 

Cast out, alike of person and of thing. 

Plague from this union spread, whose subtle bane 

The strongest did not easily escape ; 

And He, what wonder ! took a mortal taint. 

How shall I trace the change, how bear to tell 

That he broke faith with them whom he had laid 

In earth's dark cliambers, with a Christian's hope 1 

An infidel contempt of holy writ 

Stole by degrees upon his mind ; and hence 

Life, like that Roman Janus, double-faced ; 

Vilest hypocrisy — the laughing, gay 

Hypocrisy, not leagued with fear, but pride. 

Smooth words he had to wheedle simple souls ; 

But, for disciples of the inner school, 

Old freedom was old servitude, and they 

The wisest whose opinions stooped the least 

To known restraints ; and who most boldly drew 

Hopeful prognostications from a creed, 

That, in the light of false philosophy. 

Spread like a halo round a misty moon. 

Widening its circle as the storms advance. 



60 



THE EXCUKSION, 



His sacred function was at length renounced ; 
And every day and every place enjoyed 
The unshackled layman's natural liberty ; 
Speech, manners, morals, all without disguise. 
I do not wish to wrong him ; though the course 
Of private life licentiously displayed 
Unhallowed actions — planted like a crown 
Upon the insolent aspiring brow 
Of spurious notions — worn as open signs 
Of prejudice subdued — still he retained, 
'Mid much abasement, what he had received 
From nature, an intense and glowing mind. 
Wherefore, vrhen humbled Liberty grew weak, 
And mortal sickness on her face appeared. 
He colored objects to his own desire 
As with a lover's passion. Yet his moods 
Of pain were keen as those of better men, 
Nay keener, as his fortitude was less : 
And he continued, when worse days were come, 
To deal about his sparkling eloquence, 
Struggling against the strange reverse with zeal 
That showed like happiness. But, in despite 
Of all this outside bravery, within. 
He neither felt encouragement nor hope : 
For moral dignity, and strength of mind. 
Were wanting ; and simplicity of life ; 
And reverence for himself ; and, last and best, 
Confiding thoughts, through love and fear of Him 
Before whose sight the troubles of this world 
Are vain, as billows in a tossing sea. 



The glory of the times fading away — 
The splendor, which had given a festal air 



THE SOLITARY. 61 

To self-importance, hallowed it, and veiled 
From liis own sight — this gone, he forfeited 
All joy in human nature ; was consumed, 
And vexed, and chafed, by levity and scorn, 
And fruitless indignation ; galled by pride ; 
Made desperate by contempt of men who throve 
Befoi'e his sight in power or fame, and won, 
Without desert, what he desired ; weak men, 
Too weak even for his envy or his hate. 
Tormented thus, after a wandering course 
Of discontent, and inwardly opprest 
With malady — in part, I fear, provoked 
By weariness of life — he fixed his home. 
Or, rather say, sate down by very chance, 
Amoncf these ruffffed hills; where now he dwells. 
And wastes the sad remainder of his hours, 
Steeped in a self-indulging spleen, that wants not 
Its own voluptuousness ; — on this resolved, 
With this content, that he will live and die 
Forgotten, — at safe distance from ' a world 
Not moving to his mind.' " 

These serious words 
Closed the preparatory notices 
That served my Fellow-traveller to beguile 
The way, while we advanced up that wide vale. 
Diverging now (as if his quest had been 
Some secret of the mountains, cavern, fall 
Of water, or some lofty eminence. 
Renowned for splendid prospect far and wide) 
We scaled, without a track to ease our steps, 
A steep ascent ; and reached a dreary plain, 
With a tumultuous waste of huge hill tops 
Before us ; savage region ! which I paced 
6 




m' the: bxc¥'r~s-iO'Nv 

Dispirited". -wheiT,. all at once, behold l' 

Beneath our feet,- a little lowly vale^ 

A lowly valev and yet uplifted- high 

Among- the rao-untains ; even as if the spo€ 

Had been fronsi eldest time by wish of theirs 

So pfeced, to be shut out from all the world !: 

Urn-like- it was in- shape, d&ep- as> an urn'; 

With rocfes encompassed;, save- that to' the south' 

"Was one small opening, vAere a heath^clad ridge-- 

SuppKed a boundaiy less abrupt and close ]■ 

A quiet, treeless- nook, with twa- gTeen fields,- — ^ 

A liquid pool that glittered in the- sun,. 

And one bare duelling ; on© abode, no- more- 1 

it seemed the home of poverty and toil. 

Though not of want : the little fieldsy made gpeem 

By husbandry of many thrifty years. 

Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland ho^ise. 

■ — Tliere crows the cock, single in his domain r 

The small birds find in spring no thicket there 

To shroud them ; only from the neighboring. vaTess 

The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill tops, 

Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder pla«e.. 

Ah ! what a sweet Recess,- thought I, is- here t 
Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease 
Upon a bed of heath ; — ^full many a spot 
Of hidden beauty have I chanced to espy 
Among the mountains ; never one like tlas j: 
So lonesome, and so perfectly secure ;; 
Not melandioly — ^no, for it is green*. 
And bright,- and fertile, furnished in itself 
With the few needful things that life requires^. 
■ — In rugged arms how softly does- it lie^ 



How tenderly protected .! Ear and near 
We have an image of the pristine earth. 
The planet in its nakedness : were this 
Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat, 
'First, last, and single, in the breathing woii^p 
.ft could not he more quiet : peace is here 
^sOr nowhere ; days unruffled by the gale 
lOf public news er private ; years that pass 
^Forgetfully ; uncalled upon to pay 
'The common penalties of mortal life, 
^Sickness, &r accident, or grief, or pain. 

<3n these and kindred thougMs iHteiat I lay- 
In silence musing by my Comrade's sid'e. 
He also silent ; when from out the heart 
iOf that profound abyss a solemn voice. 
Or several voices in one solemn sound. 
Was heard ascending ; mournful, deep, and slow 
The cadence, as of psalms — a funeral dirge! 
We listened, looking down upon the hut, 
But seeing no one : meanwhile from below 
The strain continued, spiritual as before-; 
And 'now distinctly could I recognise 
These words -: — ' Shall in the grave thy love he knoto% 
in death thy faithfulness T — " God rest his soul,!" 
.'Said the old man, abruptly bi'eaking silence, — 
-" He is departed, and finds peace at lasl-l" 

This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains 
Wet ceasing, forth appeared in view a band 
sOf rustic persons, from behind the hut 
Beariag a coffin in the midst, with which 
They ahajjed their -course along the sloping sidle 











64 THE EXCURSION. 






Of that small valley, singing as they moved ; 






A sober company and few, the men 






Bare-headed, and all decently attired ! 






Some steps when they had thus advanced,, the dirge 






Ended ; and, from the stillness that ensued 






Recovering, to my Friend I said, " You spake. 






Methought, with apprehension, that these rites 






Are paid to Him upon whose shy retreat 






This day we purposed to intrude." — " I did so. 






But let us hence, that we may learn the truth : 






Perhaps it is not he but some one else 






For whom this pious service is performed ; 






Some other tenant of the solitude." 




\ 


So, to a steep and difficult descent 
Ti-usting ourselves, we wound from crag to cragv 
Where passage could be won ; and, as the last 






Of the mute train, behind the heathy top 






Of that off-sloping outlet, disappeared. 






I, more impatient in my downward course. 






Had landed upon easy ground ; and there 






Stood waiting for my Comrade. When behold 






An object that enticed my steps aside 1 






A narrow, winding entry opened out 






Into a platform — that lay, sheepfold-wise. 




' 


Enclosed between an upright mass of roek 






And one old moss-grown wall ; — a eool recess^ 






And fanciful ! For where the rock and wall 






Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed 






By thrusting two rude staves into the wall 






And overlaying them with mountain sods ; 






To weather -fend a little turf-built seat 






Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread 








„ 



THE SOLITARY. ^5 

The biirning sunshine, or a traKsient shower ; 
But the whole piainly wrought fey children's hands ! 
Whose skill had thronged the floor with a proud show 
Of baby-houses, curiously arranged ; 
Nor wanting ornament of walks between, 
With mimic trees inserted in the turf, 
And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight, 
I could not choose but beckon to my Guide, 
Who, entering, round him threw a careless glance. 
Impatient to pass on, when I exclaimed, 
*' Lo ! what is here ?" and, stooping down, drew forth 
A book, that, in the midst ^f stones and moss 
And wreck of party-colored earthenware, 
Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise 
One of those petty structures. " His it must be !" 
Exclaimed the Wanderer, " cannot but be his, 
And he is gone 1" The book, which in my hand 
Had opened of itself (for it was swoln 
With searching damp, and seemingly had lain 
To the injurious elements exposed 
From week to week,) I found to be a work 
In the French tongue, a Novel of Voltaire, 
His famous Optimist. " Unhappy Man !" 
Exclaimed my Friend : " here then has been to him 
Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place 
Within how deep a shelter ! He had fits. 
Even to the last, of genuine tenderness, 
And loved the haunts of children : here, no doubt. 
Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports. 
Or sate corapanionless ; and here the book, 
Left and forgotten in his careless way. 
Must by the cottage-children have been found : 
Heaven bless them, and their mconsiderate work ! 
6* 



66 THE EXCURSION. 

To what odd pxirpose have the darlings turned 
This sad meniorial of their hapless friend !" 

"Me," said I, "most doth it surprise, to find 
Such book in such a place !" — " A book it is,'* 
He answered, " to the Person suited well. 
Though little suited to surrounding things : 
'Tis strange, I grant ; and stranger still had been 
To see the Man who owned it, dwelling here, 
With one poor shepherd, far from all the world !— =• 
Now, if our errand hath been thrown away^ 
As from these intimations I forebode. 
Grieved shall I be— less for my sake than yours. 
And least of all for him who is no more," 

By this, the book was in the old Man's hand ; 
And he continued, glancing on the leaves 
An eye of scorn : — " The lover," said he, " doomed 
To love when hope hath failed him — whom no depth 
Of privacy is deep enoug,h to hide. 
Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair. 
And that is joy to him. When change of times 
Hath summoned kings to scaffolds, do but give 
The faithful servant, who must hide his head 
Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may, 
A kerchief sprinkled with his master's blood. 
And he too hath his comforter. How poor. 
Beyond all poverty how destitute, 
Must that Man have been left, who, hither driven. 
Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him 
No dearer relique, and no better stay. 
Than this dull product of a scoffer's pen. 
Impure conceits discharging from a heart 



THE SOLITARY. 67 

Hardened by impious pride ! — I did not fear 
To tax you with this journey ;" — mildly said 
My venerable friend, as forth we stepped 
Into the presence of the cheerful light — 
" For I have knowledge that you do not shrink 
From moving spectacles ; — ^^but let us on." 

So speaking, on he went, and at the word 
I followed, till he made a sudden stand : 
For full in view, approaching through a gate 
That opened from the enclosure of green fields 
Into the rough uncultivated ground. 
Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead ! 
I knew from his deportment, mien, and dress, 
That it could be no other ; a pale face, 
A meagre person, tall, and in a garb 
Not rustic — dull and faded like himself ! 
He saw us not, though distant but few steps ; 
For he was busy, dealing, from a store 
Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings 
Of red-ripe currants ; gift by which he strove, 
With intermixture of endearing words, 
To soothe a Child, who walked beside him, weeping 
As if disconsolate. — " They to the grave 
Are bearing him, my Little-one," he said, 
" To the dark pit ; but he will feel no pain ; 
His body is at rest, his soul in Heaven." 

More might have followed —- but my honored 
Friend 
Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank 
And cordial greeting. — Vivid was the light 
That flashed and sparkled from the other's eyes ; 



68 THE EXCURSION. 

He was all fire: no shadow on his brow 
Remained, nor sign of sickness on his face* 
Hands joined he with his Yisitant,— a grasp> 
An eager grasp ; and many moments' space- 
When the first glow of pleasure was no more, 
And, of the sad appearance which at once 
Had vanished, much was come and coming back- 
An amicable smile retained the life 
Which it had unexpectedly received. 
Upon his hollow eheek. " How kind," he said, 
** Nor 'could your eoming have been better timed; 
For this, you see, is in our narrow world 
A day of sorrow. I have here a charge "— ^ 
And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly 
The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping child — 
" A little mourner, whom it is my task 
To comfort ;— but how came ye ? — ^if yon track 
(Which doth at once befriend us and betray) 
Conducted hither your most welcome feet. 
Ye could no;, miss the funeral train— they yet 
Have scarcely disappeared," ^' This blooming Child," 
Said the old Man, is of an age to weep 
At any grave or solemn spectacle. 
Inly distressed or overpowered with awe, 
He knows not wherefore ;-— but the boy to-day, 
Perhaps is shedding orphan's tears ; you also 
Must have sustained a loss." — " The hand of Death, 
He answered, has been here ; but could not well 
Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen 
Upon myself." — The other left these words 
Unnoticed, tliua coritinuing.— 

" From yon crag, 
©ow® whose «tee|) sides we dropped into the vale, 



THE SOLITAKY. 6ff 

We heard the hymn they sang — a solemn sound 

Heard anywhere ; but in a place like this 

'Tis more than human ! Many precious rites 

And customs of our rural ancestry 

Are gone, or stealing from us ; this, I hope, 

Will last for ever. Oft on my way have I 

Stood still, though but a casual passenger. 

So much I felt the awfulness of life, 

In that one moment when the corse is lifted 

In silence, with a hush of decency ; 

Then from the threshold moves with song of peace. 

And confidential yearnings, tow'rds its home. 

Its final home on earth. What traveller — who — 

(How far soe'er a stranger) does not own 

The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go, 

A mute procession on the houseless road ; 

Or passing by some single tenement 

Or clustered dwellings, where again they raise 

The monitory voice ? But most of all 

It touches, it confirms, and elevates. 

Then, when the body, soon to be consigned 

Ashes to ashes, dust bequeathed to dust. 

Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward borne 

Upon the shoulders of the next in love. 

The nearest in affection or in blood ; 

Yea, by the very mourners who had knelt 

Beside the coffin, resting on its lid 

In silent grief their unuplifted heads. 

And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mournful plaint. 

And that most awful scripture which declares 

We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed ! 

— Have I not seen — ^ye likewise may have seen— 

Son, husband, brothers — brothers side by side, 



70 THE EXCURSION. 

And son and father also side by side, 
Rise from that posture : — and in concert move. 
On the green turf following the vested Priest, 
Four dear supporters of one senseless weight, 
From which they do not shrink, and under which 
They faint not, but advance toAvards the open grave 
Step after step — together, with their firm 
Unhidden faces ; he that suffers most, 
He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps. 
The most serene, with most undaunted eye ! — 
Oh t blest are they who live and die like these, 
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow 
■Daoumed !" 

" That poor Man taken hence to-day," replied 
The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile 
Which did not please me, " must be deemed, I fear, 
Of the unblest ; for he will surely sink 
Into his mother earth without such pomp 
Of grief, depart without occasion given 
By him for such array of fortitude. 
Full seventy winters hath he lived, and mark ! 
This simple Child will mourn his one short hour. 
And I shall miss him ; scanty tribute ! yet. 
This wanting, he would leave the sight of men. 
If love were his sole claim upon their care, 
Like a ripe date which in the desert falls 
Without a hand to gather it." 

At this 
I interposed, though loth to speak, and said, 
*' Can it be thus among so. small a band 
As ye must needs be here ? in such a place 
I vrould not willingly, methinks, lose sight 



THE SOLITARY. H 

Of a depai'ting cloud." — " 'T was not for love," 
Answered the sick Man with a careless voice^- 
•* That I came hither ; neither have I found 
Among associates who have power of speech, 
Nor in such other converse as is here, 
Temptation so prevailing as to change 
That mood, or undermine my first resolve." 
Then, speaking in like careless sort, he said 
To my benign Companion, — " Pity 't is 
That fortune did not guide you to this house 
A few days earlier ; then would yott have seen 
What stuff the Dwellei's in a solitude, 
That seems by Nature hollowed out to be 
The seat and bosom of pure innocence, 
Are made of ; an ungracious matter this ! 
"Which, for truth's sake, yet in remembrance too 
Of past discussions with this zealous friend 
And advocate of humble life, I now 
Will force upon his notice ; undeterred 
By the example of his own pure course, 
And that respect and deference which a soul 
May fairly claim, by niggard age enriched 
In what she most doth value, love of God 
And his frail creature Man ; — but ye shall hear. 
I talk — and ye are standing in the sun 
Without refreshment !" 

QuicMy had he spoken, 
And, with light steps still quicker than his words. 
Led toward the Cottage. Homely was the spot ; 
And, to my feeling, ere we reached the door. 
Had almost a forbidding nakedness ; 
Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair. 
Than it appeared when from the beetling rock 



72 THE EXCURSION. 

"We had looked down upon It. All -within, 

As left by the departed company. 

Was silent, save the solitary clock 

That on mine ear ticked with a mournful sound.— 

Following our Guide, we clomb the cottage-stairs 

And reached a small apartment dark and \o^, 

Which was no sooner entered than our Host 

Said gaily, " This is my domain, my cell. 

My hermitage, my cabin, what you will — - 

I love it better than a snail his house. 

But now ye shall be feasted with our best." 

So, with more ardor than an unripe girl 
Left one day mistress of her mother's stores, 
He went about his hospitable task. 
My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no less. 
And pleased I looked upon my grey-haired Friend, 
As if to thank him ; he returned that look. 
Cheered, plainly, and yet serious. What a wreck 
Had we about us ! scattered was the floor, 
And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf, 
With books, maps, fossils, withered plants and 

flowers. 
And tufts of mountain moss. Mechanic tools 
Lay intermixed with scraps of paper, some 
Scribbled with verse : a broken angling-rod 
And shattered telescope, together linked 
By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook ; 
And instruments of music, some half-made. 
Some in disgrace, hung dangling from the walls. 
But speedily the promise was fulfilled ; 
A feast before us, and a courteous Host 
Inviting us in glee to sit and eat. 



THE SOLITARY. 73 

A napkin, white as foam of that rough brook 

By which it had been bleached, o'erspread the board ; 

And was itself half-covered with a store 

Of dainties, — oaten bread, curd, cheese, and cream ; 

And cakes of butter curiously embossed, 

Butter that had imbibed from meadow-flowers 

A golden hue, delicate as their own 

Faintly reflected in a lingering stream. 

Nor lacked, for more delight on that warm day, 

Our table, small parade of garden fruits. 

And whortle-berries from the mountain side. 

The Child, who long ere this had stilled his sobs, 

Was now a help to his late comforter. 

And moved, a willing Page, as he was bid. 

Ministering to our need. 

In genial mood, 
While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate 
Fronting the window of that little cell, 
I could not, ever and anon, forbear 
To glance an upward look on two huge Peaks, 
That from some other vale peered into this. 
" Those lusty twins," exclaimed our host, " if here 
It were your lot to dwell, would soon become 
Your prized companions. — Many are the notes 
Which, in his timeful course, the wind draws forth 
From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing 

shores ; 
And well those lofty brethren bear their part 
In the wild concert — chiefly when the storm 
Rides high ; then all the upper air they fill 
With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow. 
Like smoke, along the level of the blast. 
In mighty current ; theirs, too, is the song 
7 



?4 THE EXCURSION. 

Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails ; 
And, in the grim and breathless hour of noon, 
Methinks that I have heard them echo back 
The thunder's greeting. Nor have nature's laws 
Left them ungifted with a power to yield 
Music of finer tone ; a harmony, 
So do I call it, though it be the hand 
Of silence, though there be no voice ; — the clouds. 
The mist, the shadows, Hght of golden suns. 
Motions of moonlight, all come thither — touch, 
And have an answer — -thither come, and shape 
A language not unwelcome to sick hearts 
And idle spirits : — there the sun himself. 
At the calm close of summer's longest day 
Rests his substantial orb ; — between those heights 
And on the top of either pinnacle. 
More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault. 
Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud. 
Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man 
Than the mute agents stirring there : — alone 
Here do I sit and watch. — " 

A fall of voice. 
Regretted like the nightingale's last note. 
Had scarcely closed this high-wrought strain of 

rapture 
Ere with inviting smile the Wanderer said : 
" Now for the tale with which you threatene^d us !" 
" In truth the threat escaped me unawares : 
Should the tale tire you, let this challenge stand 
For my excuse. Dissevered from mankind. 
As to your eyes and thoughts we must have seemed 
When ye looked down upon us from the crag. 
Islanders mid a stormy mountain sea, 



THE SOLITARY. 75 

We are not so ; — perpetually we touch 

Upon the vulgar ordinances of the world ; 

And he, whom this our cottage hath to-day 

Relinquished, lived dependent for his bread 

Upon the laws of public charity. 

The Housewife, tempted by such slender gains 

As might from that occasion be distilled. 

Opened, as she before had done for me. 

Her doors to admit this homeless Pensioner ; 

The portion gave of coarse but wholesome fare 

Which appetite required — a blind dull nook. 

Such as she had, the kennel of his rest ! 

This, in itself not ill, would yet have been 

111 borne in earlier life ; but his was now 

The still contentedness of seventy years. 

Calm did he sit under the wide-spread tree 

Of his old age ; and yet less calm and meek, 

Wmningly meek or venerably calm. 

Than slow and torpid ; paying in this wise 

A penalty, if penalty it were, 

For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime. 

I loved the old Man, for I pitied him ! 

A task it was, I own, to hold discourse 

With one so slow in gathering up his thoughts. 

But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes ; 

Mild, inoffensive, ready in his way. 

And helpful to his utmost power : and there 

Our housewife knew full well what she possessed ! 

He was her vassal of all labor, tilled 

Her garden, from the pasture fetched her kine ; 

And, one among the orderly array 

Of hay-makers, beneath the burning sun 

Maintained his place ; or heedfully pursued 



76 THE EXCURSION. 

Ilis course, on errands bound, to other vales. 

Leading sometimes an inexperienced cMld 

Too young for any profitable task. 

So moved he like a shadow that performed 

Substantial service. Mark me now, and learn 

For what reward ! — The moon her monthly round 

Hath not completed since our dame, the queen 

Of this one cottage and this lonely dale. 

Into my little sanctuary rushed — 

Voice to a rueful treble humanized. 

And features in deplorable dismay. 

I treat the matter lightly, but, alas I 

It is most serious : persevering rain 

Had fallen in torrents ; all the mountain tops 

Were hidden, and black vapors coursed their sides ; 

This had I seen, and saw ; but, till she spake. 

Was wholly ignorant that my ancient Friend — 

Who at her bidding, early and alone, 

Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland turf 

For winter fuel — to his noontide meal 

Returned not, and now, haply, on the heights 

Lay at the mercy of this raging storm. 

* Inhuman !' — said I, "' was an old Man's life 

Not worth the trouble of a thought ? — alas \ 

This notice comes too late.' With joy I saw 

Her husband enter — from a distant vale. 

We sallied forth together ; found the tools 

Which the neglected veteran had dropped. 

But through all quarters looked for him in vain* 

We shouted — but no answer ! Darkness fell 

Without remission of the blast or shower. 

And fears for our own safety drove us home. 



THE SOLITARY. 77 

I, who weep little, did, I will confess, 
The moment I was seated here alone, 
Honor my little cell With some few tears 
Which anger and resentment could not dry. 
All night the storm endured ; and, soon as help 
Had been collected from the neighboring vale, 
With morning we renewed our quest : the wind 
Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills 
Lay shrouded in impenetrable mist ; 
And long and hopelessly we sought in vain : 
'Till, chancing on that lofty ridge to pass 
A heap of ruin — almost without walls 
And wholly without roof (the bleached remains 
Of a small chapel, where, in ancient time. 
The peasants of these lonely valleys used 
To meet for worship on that central height) — ■ 
We there espied the object of our search. 
Lying full three parts buried among tufts 
Of heath-plant, under and above him strewn, 
To baffle, as he might, the watery storm : 
And there we found him breathing peaceably, 
Snug as a child that hides itself in sport ' 
'Mid a green hay-cock in a sunny field. 
We spake — he made reply, but would not stir 
At our entreaty : less from want of power 
Than apprehension and bewildering thoughts. 

So was he lifted gently from the ground. 
And with their freight homeward the shepherds 

moved 
Through the dull mist, I following — when a step, 
A single step, that freed me from the skirts 
Of the blind vapor, opened to my view 
1* 



78 THE EXCURSION. 

Glory beyond all glory ever seen 

By waking sense or by the dreaming soul ! 

The appearance, instantaneously disclosed, 

Was of a mighty city — boldly say 

A wilderness of buildmg, sinking far 

And self- withdrawn into a boundless depth. 

Far sinking into splendor — without end ! 

Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold, 

With alabaster domes, and silver spires, 

And blazing terrace upon terrace, high 

Uplifted ; here, serene pavUions bright, 

In avenues disposed ; there, towers begirt 

With battlements that on their restless fronts 

Bore stars — illumination of all gems ! 

By earthly nature had the effect been wrought 

Upon the dark materials of the storm 

Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves 

And mountain- steeps and summits, whereunto 

The vapors had receded, taking there 

Their station under a cerulean sky. 

Oh, 't was an unimaginable sight ! 

Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald 

turf. 
Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky. 
Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed, 
Molten together, and composing thus. 
Each lost in each, that marvellous array 
Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge 
Fantastic pomp of structure without name, 
In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped. 
Right in the midst, where interspace appeared 
Of open court, an object like a throne 
Under a shining canopy of state 



THE SOLITARY. 79 

Stood fixed ; and fixed resemblances were seen 

To implements of ordinary use, 

But vast in size, in substance glorified ; 

Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld 

In vision — forms uncouth of mightiest power 

For admiration and mysterious awe. 

This little Vale, a dwelling place of Man, 

Lay low beneath my feet ; 't was visible — ■ 

I saw not, but I felt that it was there. 

That which I saw was the revealed abode 

Of Spirits in beatitude : my heart 

Swelled in my breast. — ' I have been dead,' I cried, 

* And now I live ! Oh ! wherefore do I live ?' 

And with that pang I prayed to be no more ! — 

— But I forget our Charge, as utterly 

I then forgot him : — there I stood and gazed : 

The apparition faded not away. 

And I descended. 

Having reached the house, 
I found its rescued inmate safely lodged, 
And in serene possession of himself, 
Beside a fire whose genial warmth seemed met 
By a faint shining from the heart, a gleam 
Of comfort, spread over his palhd face. 
Great show of joy the housewife made, and truly 
Was glad to find her conscience set at ease ; 
And not less glad, for sake of her good name, 
That the poor Sufferer had escaped with life. 
But, though he seemed at first to have received 
No harm, and uncomplaining as before 
Went through his usual tasks, a silent change 
Soon showed itself : he lingered three short weeks ; 
And from the cottage hath been borne to-day. 



80 THE EXCURSION. 

So ends my dolorous tale, and glad I am 
That it is ended." At these words he ttimed — 
And, with blithe air of open fellowship. 
Brought from the cupboard wine and stouter cheer, 
Like one who would be merry. Seeing this, 
My grey-haired Friend said courteously — "Nay, 

nay. 
You have regaled us as a hermit ought ; 
Now let us forth into the sun !" — Our Host 
Rose, though reluctantly, and forth we went. 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK THIRD, 



DESPONDENCY. 



DESPONDENCY. 



ARGUMENT . 



Images in the Valley. — ^Another Recess in it entered and described.— 
Wanderer's sensationa. — Solitary's excited by the same objects. — Con- 
trast between these.— 'Despondency of the Solitary gently reproved. — 
Conversation exhibiting the Solitary's past and present opinions and 
feelings, till he enters irpon his own History at length. — His domestic 
felicity— Afflictions.— Dejection.— Roused by the French Revolution. 
— Disappointment and disgust. — Voyage to America. — Disappointment 
and disgust pursue him. — His return. — His languor and depression of 
mmd, from want of faith in the great truths of Religion, and want of 
confidence in the virtue of Mankind. 

A HUMMING BEE— a little tinkling riU— 
A pair of falcons wheeling on the wing. 
In clamorous agitation, round the crest 
Of a taU rock, their airy citadel — 
By each and all of these the pensive ear 
Was greeted, in the silence that ensued. 
When through the cottage-threshold we had passed, 
And, deep within that lonesome valley, stood 
Once more beneath the concave of a blue 
And cloudless sky. — Anon exclaimed our Host, 
Triumphantly dispersmg with the taunt 
The shade of discontent which on his brow 
Had gathered, — " Ye have left my cell, — but see 
83 



84 THE EXCUKSION. 

How Nature hems you in with friendly arms ! 

And by her help ye are my prisoners still. 

But which way shall I lead you ?— how contrive, 

In spot so parsimoniously endowed, 

That the brief hours, which yet remain, may reap 

Some recompense of knowledge or delight ?" 

So saying, round he looked, as if perplexed ; 

And, to remove those doubts, my grey-haired 

Friend 
Said — " Shall we take this pathway for our guide ? — - 
Upward it winds, as if, in summer heats. 
Its line had first been fashioned by the flock 
Seeking a place of refuge at the root 
Of yon black Yew-tree, whose protruded boughs 
Darken the silver bosom of the crag. 
From which she draws her meagre sustenance. 
There in commodious shelter may we rest. 
Or let us trace this streamlet to its source ; 
Feebly it tinkles with an earthy sound. 
And a few steps may bring us to the spot 
Where, haply, crowned with flowerets and green 

herbs, 
The mountain infant to the sun comes forth. 
Like human life from darkness." — A quick turn 
Through a strait passage of encumbered groimd, 
Proved that such hope was vain : — for now we stood 
Shut out from prospect of the open vale, 
And saw the water, that composed this rill, 
Descending, disembodied, and diff"used 
O'er the smooth surface of an ample crag, 
Lofty, and steep, and naked as a tower. 
All further progress here was barred ; — And who, 
Thought I, if master of a vacant hour, 



DESPONDENCY. 85 

Here would not linger, willingly detained ? 
Whether to such wild objects he were led 
When copious rains have magnified the stream 
Into a loud and white-robed waterfall, 
Or introduced at this more quiet time. 

Upon a semicirque of turf-clad ground, 
The hidden nook discovered to our view 
A moss of rock, resembling, as it lay 
Right at the foot of that moist precipice, 
A stranded ship, with keel upturned, that rests 
Fearless of winds and waves. Three several stones 
Stood near, of smaller size, and not unlike 
To monumental pillars : and, from these 
Some little space disjoined, a pair were seen, 
That with united shoulders bore aloft 
A fragment, like an altar, fiat and smooth : 
Barren the tablet, yet thereon appeared 
A tall and shining holly, that had found 
A hospitable chink, and stood upright. 
As if inserted by some human hand 
In mockery, to wither in the sun. 
Or lay its beauty flat before a breeze. 
The first that entered. But no breeze did now 
Find entrance ; — high or low appeared no trace 
Of motion, save the water that descended, 
DiflFused adown that barrier of steep rock. 
And softly creeping, like a breath of air, 
Such as is sometimes seen, and hardly seen. 
To brush the still breast of a crystal lake. 

" Behold a cabinet for sages built, 
Which kings might envy !" — Praise to this effect 
8 



iSb THE EXCURSION. 

Broke from the liappy old Man's reverend Kp ; 

Who to the SoUtary turned, and said, 

" In sooth, with love's familiar privilege, 

You have decried the wealth which is your own. 

Among these rocks and stones, raethinks, I see 

More than the heedless impress that belongs 

To lonely nature's casual work : they bear 

A semblance strange of power intelligent, 

And of design not wholly worn away. 

Boldest of plants that ever faced the winrl, 

How gracefully that slender shrub looks forth 

From its fantastic birth-place ! And I own, 

Some shadowy intimations haunt me here. 

That in these shows a chronicle survives 

Of purposes akin to those of Man, 

But wrought with mightier arm than now prevails. 

• — Voiceless the stream descends into the gulf 

With timid lapse ; — and lo ! while in this strait 

I stand — the chasm of sky above my head 

Is heaven's profoundest azure ; no domain 

For fickle, short-lived clouds to occupy. 

Or to pass through ; but rather an abyss 

In which the everlasting stars abide ; 

And whose soft gloom, and boundless depth, might 

tempt 
The curious eye to look for them by day. 
— Hail Contemplation ! from the stately towers. 
Reared by the industrious hand of human art 
To lift thee high above the misty air 
And turbulence of murmuring cities vast ; 
From academic groves, that have for thee 
Been planted, hither come and find a lodge 
To which thou mayst resort for holier peace, — 



DESPONDENCY. 87 

From whose calm centre thou, through height or 

depth, 
Mayst penetrate, wherever truth shall lead : 
Measuring- through all decrees, until the scale 

o o o ' 

Of time and conscious nature disappear. 
Lost in unsearchable eternity." ' 

A pause ensued ; and with minuter care 
We scanned the various features of the scene . 
And soon the Tenant of that lonely vale 
With courteous voice thus spake — 

" I should have grieved 
Hereafter, net escaping self-reproach. 
If from my poor retirement ye had gone 
Leaving this nook unvisited : but, in sooth. 
Your unexpected presence had so roused 
My spirits, that they were bent on enterprise ; 
And, like an ardent hunter, I forgot. 
Or, shall I say ? — disdained, the game that lurks 
At my ©wn door. The shapes before our eyes 
And their arrangement, doubtless must be deemed 
The sport of Nature, aided by blind Chance 
Eudely to mock the works of toiling Man. 
And henice, this upright shaft of unhewn stoue. 
From Fancy, willing to set off her stores 
By sounding titles, haith acquired the name 
Of Pompey's pillar- that I gravely style 
My Theban obelisk; aad, there, behold 
A Druid cromiech 1 — thas I entertain 
The antiquarian humor, and am pleased 
To skim along the surfaces of things, 
Beguiliag harmlessly tlie listless hours. 
Bui if the spirit be oppressed by sense 



88 THE EXCURSION. 

Of instability, revolt, decay, 

And change, and emptiness, these freaks of Nature 

And her blind helper Chance, do then suffice 

To quicken, and to aggravate — to feed 

Pity and scorn, and melancholy pride, 

Not less than that huge Pile (from some abyss. 

Of mortal power unquestionably sprung) 

Whose hoary diadem of pendent rocks 

Confines the shrill- voiced whirlwind, round and 

round 
Eddying within its vast circumference. 
On Sarum's naked plain — than pyramid 
Of Egypt, unsubverted, undissolved — 
Or Syria's marble ruins towering high 
Above the sandy desert, in the light 
Of sun or moon. — Forgive me, if I say. 
That an appearance which hath raised your minds 
To an exalted pitch (the self- same cause 
Different effect producing) is for me 
Fraught rather with depression than delight. 
Though shame it were, could I not look aroimd,. 
By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased. 
Yet happier in my judgment, even than you 
With your bright transports fairly may be deemed. 
The wandering Herbalist, — who, cfear alike 
From vain, and, that worse evil, vexing thoughts. 
Casts, if he ever chance to enter here, 
Upon these uncouth Forms a slight regard 
Of transitory interest, and peeps round 
For some rare floweret of the hills, or plant 
Of craggy fountain ; what he hopes for wins» 
Or learns, at least, that 't is not to be won : 
Then, keen and eager, as a fine-nosed hound 



DESPONDENCY. 89 

By soul-engressiiig instinct driven along 

through wood or open fields the harmless Matt 

Departs, intent upon his on^^^ard quest !--^ 

Kor is that Feilow-wanderer, so deeiii I, 

Less to be envied, (you may trace him oft 

By scars which his activity has left 

Besid-e our roads and pathways, though^ thank 

Heaven I 
This -covert nook reports not ef his hand) 
He who with pocket-hammer smites the edge 
Of luckless rock or prominent stone, disguised 
In weather- stains or crusted o'er by Kature 
With her first growths, detaching by the stroke 
A chip or splinter-— to resolve his doubts ; 
And, with that ready answer satisfied, 
The substance classes by some barbarous aame, 
And hurries on ; or from the fragments picks 
His specimen, if but haply interveined 
With sparkling mineral, or should crystal cube 
Lurk in its cells — and thinks himself enriched, 
Wealthier, and doubtless wiser, than before J 
Intrusted safely each to his pursuit. 
Earnest alike, let both from hill to hill 
Range ; if it please them, speed from clime to dime ; 
The mind is full— and free from pain their pastime."" 

*' Then," said I, interposing, " One is near. 
Who cannot but possess in your esteem 
Place worthier still of envy. May I name. 
Without offence, that fair-faced cottage-boy ? 
Dame Nature's pupil of the lowest form, 
Youngest apprentice in the school of art ! 
Him, as we entered from the open glea, 
S* 



90 THE EXCURSION, 

You might have noticed, busily engag-ed, 
Heart- soul, and hands, — in mending, the defects- 
Left in the fabric of a leaky dam 
Raised for enabling this penurious stream 
To turn a slender mill (that new-made plaything^ 
For his delight — the happiest he of all !" 

" Far happiest," answered the desponding Ma% 
*' If, such as now he is, he might remain ! 
Ah ! what avails imagination high 
Or question deep ? what profits all that earth,^^ 
Or heaven's blue vault, is suffered to put forth 
Of impulse or allurement, for the Sovd 
To quit the beaten track of life, and soaa; 
Far as she finds a yielding element 
In past or future ; far as sloe can go 
Through time or space- — ^if neither in the one,. 
Nor in the other region, nor in aught 
That Fancy, dreaming o'er the map of things^ 
Hath placed beyond these penetrable bounds. 
Words of assurance can be heard ; if nowhere 
A habitation, for consummate good, 
Or for progressive virtue, by the search 
Can be attained, — a better sanctuary 
From doubt and sorrow, than the senseless grave ?** 

" Is this," the grey-haired Wanderer mildly said» 
" The voice, which we so lately overheard. 
To that same child, addressing tenderly 
The consolations of a hopeful mind ? 
' His hody is at rest, his soul in Heaven.* 
These were your words ; and, verily, methinks' 



DESPONDENCY. 91 

Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop 
Than when we soar/' — ' 

The Other, not displeased, 
Promptly rephed— " My notion is the same. 
And I, without reluctance, could decline 
All act of inquisition whence we rise, 
And what, when breath hath ceased, we may be- 
come. 
Here are we, in a bright and breathing world. 
Our origin, what matters it ? In lack 
Of worthier explanation, say at once 
With the American (a thought which suits 
The place where now we stand) that certain men 
Leapt out together from a rocky cave ; 
And these were the first parents of mankind : 
Or, if a different image be recalled 
By the warm sunshine, and the jocund yoice 
Of insects chirping out their careless lives 
On these soft beds of thyme-besprinkled turf. 
Choose, with the gay Athenian, a conceit 
As sound — blithe race ! whose mantles were be* 

decked 
With golden grasshoppers, in sign that they 
Had sprung, like those bright creatures, from the soil 
W^hereon their endless generations dwelt. 
But stop ! — these theoretic fancies jar 
On serious minds : then, as the Hindoos draw 
Their holy Ganges from a skiey fount, 
Even so deduce the stream of human life 
From seats of power divine ; and, hope, or trustj* 
That our existence winds her stately course 
Beneath the sun, like Ganges, to make part 
Of a living ocean ; or, to sink engulfed, 




THE EXCURSION. 



Like Nig^er> in impenetrable sands 

And utter darkness : thought which may he faced. 

Though comfortless \-^ 

Not of myself I speak ; 
Such acquiescence neither doth imply, 
In me, a meekly-bending spirit soothed 
By natural piety ; nor a lofty mind, 
By philosophic discipline prepared 
For calm subjection to acknowledged law ; 
Pleased to have been, contented not to be. 
Such palms I boast not ;— no ! to me, who findi, 
Reviewing my past way, much to condemn, 
Little to praise, and nothing to regret, 
(Save some remembrances of dream-like joys 
That scarcely seem to have belonged to me) 
If I must take my choice between the pait 
That rwle alternately the weary hours, 
Night is than day more acceptable ; sleep 
Doth, m my estimate of good, appear 
A better state than waking ; death than sleep : 
l^eelingly sweet is stillness after storm, 
Though under covert of the wormy ground I 

Yet be it said, in justice to myself. 
That in more genial times, when I was free 
To explore the destiny of human kind 
'(Not as an intellectual game pursued 
With curious subtilty, from wish to cheat 
Irksome sensations ; but by love of truth 
Urged on, or haply by intense delight 
In feeding thought, wherever thought could feed) 
I did not rank with those (too dull or nice. 
For to my judgment -such they then appeared. 



DESPONDENCY. 93 

Or too aspiring, thankless at the best) 

Who, in this frame of human hfe, perceive 

An object whereunto their souls are tied 

In discontented wedlock ; nor did e'er, 

From me, those dark impervious shades, that hang 

Upon the region whither we are bound, 

Exclude a power to enjoy the vital beams 

Of present sunshine. — Deities that float 

On wings, angelic Spirits ! I could muse 

O'er what from eldest time we have been told 

Of your bright forms and glorious faculties, 

And with the imagination rest content. 

Not wishing more ; repining not to tread 

The little sinuous path of earthly care, 

By flowers embellished, and by springs refreshed. 

— ' Blow winds of autumn ! — let your chilling breath 

Take the live herbage from the mead, and strip 

The shady forest of its green attire, — 

And let the bursting clouds to fury rouse 

The gentle brooks ! — Your desolating sway. 

Sheds,' I exclaimed, * no sadness upon me. 

And no disorder in your rage I find. 

What dignity, what beauty, in this change 

From mild to angry, from sad to gay. 

Alternate and revolving ! How benign. 

How rich in animation and delight, 

How bountiful these elements — compared 

With aught, as more desirable and fair. 

Devised by fancy for the golden age ; 

Or the perpetual warbling that prevails 

In Arcady, beneath unaltered skies. 

Through the long year in constant quiet bound. 

Night hushed as night, and day serene as day I* 



94 THE EXCURSION. 

— But why this tedious record ? — Age, we know. 

Is garrulous ; and solitude is apt 

To anticipate the privilege of Age. 

From far ye come ; and surely with a hope 

Of better entertainment : — let us hence !" 

Loth to forsake the spot, and still more loth 
To be diverted from our present theme, 
I said, " My thoughts agreeing, Sii-, with yours. 
Would push this censure farther ; — for, if smiles 
Of scornful pity be the just reward 
Of Poesy thus courteously employed 
In framing models to improve the scheme 
Of Man's existence, and recast the world. 
Why should not grave Philosophy be styled, 
Herself, a dreamer of a kindred stock, 
A dreamer yet more spiritless and dull ? 
Yes, shall the fine immunities she boasts 
Establish sounder titles of esteem 
For her, who (all too timid and reserved 
For onset, for resistance too inert. 
Too weak for suffering, and for hope too tame) 
Placed, among floweiy gardens curtained round 
With world-excluding groves, the brotherhood 
Of soft Epicureans, taught — if they 
The ends of being would secure, and win 
The crown of wisdom — to yield up their souls 
To a voluptuous unconcern, preferring 
Tranquillity to all things. Or is she," 
I cried, " more worthy of regard, the Power, 
Who, for the sake of sterner quiet, closed 
The Stoic's heart against the vain approach 
Of admiration, and all sense of joy ?" 



DESPONDENCY. 95 

His countenance gave notice that my zeal 
Accorded little with his present mind ; 
I ceased, and he resumed, — " Ah ! gentle Sir, 
Slight, if you will, the means ; but spare to slight 
The end of those, who did, by system, rank. 
As the prime object of a wise man's aim, 
Security from shock of accident, 
Release from fear ; and cherished peaceful days 
For their own sakes, as mortal life's chief good. 
And only reasonable felicity. 
What motive drew, what impulse, I would ask, 
Through a long course of later ages, drove, 
The hermit to his cell in forest wide ; 
Or what detained him, till his closing eyes 
Took their last farewell of the sun and stars. 
Fast anchored in the desert ? — Not alone 
Dread of the persecuting sword, remorse, 
Wrongs Unredressed, or insults unavenged 
And unavengeable, defeated pride. 
Prosperity subverted, maddening want. 
Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned. 
Love with despair, or grief in agony ; — 
Not always from intolerable pangs 
He fled ; but, compassed I'ound by pleasure, sighed 
For independent happiness ; craving peace. 
The central feeling of all happiness. 
Not as a refuge from distress or pain, 
A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce, 
But for its absolute self : a life of peace, 
Stability without regret or fear ; 
That hath been, is, and shall be evermore ! — 
Such the reward he sought ; and wore out life. 
There, where on few external things his heart 



96 THE EXCURSION 

Was set, and those his own ; or, if not his, 
Subsisting under nature's stedfast law. 

What other yearning was the master tie 
Of the monastic brotherhood, upon rock 
Aerial, or in green secluded vale, 
One after one, collected from afar, 
An undissolving fellowship ? — What but this, 
The universal instinct of repose, 
The longing for conjfii'med tranquillity. 
Inward and outward ; humble, yet sublime : 
The life where hope and memory are as one : 
Where earth is quiet and her face unchanged 
Save by the simplest toil of human hands 
Or seasons' difference ; the immortal Soul 
Consistent in self-rule ; and heaven revealed 
To meditation in that quietness ! — 
Such was their scheme : and though the wished-for 

end 
By multitudes was missed, perhaps attained 
By none, they for the attempt, and pains employed. 
Do, in my present censure, stand redeemed 
From the unqualified disdain, that once 
Would have been cast upon them by my voice 
Delivering her decisions from the seat 
Of forward youth — that scruples not to solve 
Doubts, and determine questions, by the rules 
Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone 
To overweening faith ; and is inflamed, 
By courage, to demand from real life 
The test of act and suffering, to provoke 
Hostility — how dreadful when it comes. 
Whether affliction be the foe, or guilt ! 



DESPONDENCY. 37 

A cMld of earth, I rested, in that stage 
Of my past course to which these thoughts advert, 
Upon earth's native energies ; forgetting 
That mine was a condition which required 
Nor energy, nor fortitude — a calm 
Without vicissitude ; which, if the hke 
Had been presented to my view elsewhere, 
I might have even been tempted to despise. 
But no — for the serene was also bright ; 
Enlivened happiness with joy o'erflowing, 
With joy, and — oh ! that memory should survive 
To speak the word — with rapture ! Nature's boon, 
Life's genuine inspiration, happiness 
Above what rules can teach, or fancy feign ; 
Abused, as all possessions are abused 
That are not prized according to their worth. 
And yet, what worth ? what good is given to men. 
More solid than the gilded clouds of heaven ? 
What joy more lasting than a vernal flower? — 
None ! 'tis the general plaint of human kind 
In solitude : and mutually addressed _ 
From each to all, for wisdom's sake : — This truth 
The priest announces from his holy seat : 
And, crowned with garlands in the summer grOYC, 
The poet fits it to his pensive lyre. 
Yet, ere that final resting-place be gained. 
Sharp contradictions may arise, by doom 
Of this same life, compelling us to grieve 
That the prosperities of love and joy 
Should be permitted, oft-times, to endure 
So long, and be at once cast down for ever. 
Oh ! tremble, ye, to whom hath been assigned 
A com'se of days composing happy months, 
9 



OS THE EXCURSION. 

And they as bappy years ; the present still 

So like the past, and both so firm a pledge 

Of a congenial future, that the wheels 

Of pleasure move without the aid of hope : 

For Mutability is Nature's bane : 

And slighted Hope will be avenged ; and, when 

Ye need her favors, ye shall find her not ; 

But in her stead — fear — doubt — and agony !" 

This was the bitter language of the heart : 
But, while he spake, look, gesture, tone of voice. 
Though discomposed and vehement, were such 
As skill and graceful nature might suggest 
To a proficient of the tragic scene 
Standing before the multitude, beset 
With dark events. Desirous to divert 
Or stem the current of the speaker's thoughts, 
We signified a wish to leave that place 
Of stillness and close privacy, a nook 
That seemed for self-examination made ; 
Or, for confession, in the sinner's need, 
Hidden from all men's view. To our attempt 
He yielded not ; but, pointing to a slope 
Of mossy turf defended from the sun, 
And on that couch inviting us to rest, 
Full on that tender-hearted Man he turned 
A serious eye, and his speech thus renewed. 

" You never saw, your eyes did never look 
On the bright form of Her whom once I loved : 
Her silver voice was heard upon the earth, 
A sound unknown to you ; else, honored Friend ! 
Your heart had born a pitiable share 



DESPONDENCY. 99 

Of wliat I suffered, when I -wept that loss. 
And suffisr now, not seldom, from the thought 
That I remember, and can weep no more. — 
Stripped as I am of all the golden fruit 
Of self-esteem ; and by the cutting blasts 
Of self-reproach familiarly assailed ; 
Yet would I not be of such wintry barenness 
But that some leaf of your regard should hang 
Upon my naked branches ; — lively thoughts 
<3rive birth, full often, to unguarded words ; 
I grieve that, in your presence, from my tongue 
Too much of frailty hath already dropped ; 
But that too much demands still more. 

You know. 
Revered Compatriot — and to you, kind Sir, 
{Not to be deemed a stranger, as you come 
Following the guidance of these welcome feet 
To our secluded vale) it may be told — 
That my demerits did not sue in vain 
To One on whose mild radiance many gazed 
With hope, and all with pleasure. This fair Bride — 
In the devoted ness of youthfid love. 
Preferring m_e to parents, and the choir 
Of gay companions, to the natal roof, 
And all known places and familiar sights 
((Resigned with sadness gently weighing dowa 
Her trembling expectations, but no more 
"Than did to her due honor, and to me 
Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime 
In what I had to build upon) — this Bride, 
Young, modest, mee'c, and beautiful, I led 
To a low cottage in a sunny bay. 
Where the salt sea, innocuously breaks. 



100 THE EXCURSION. 

And the sea breeze as innocently breathes, 
On Devon's leafy shores ; — a sheltered hold. 
In a soft clime encouraging the soil 
To a luxuriant bounty ! — As our steps 
Appi-oach the embowered abode — our chosen seat- 
See, rooted in the earth, her kindly bed, 
The unendangered myrtle, decked with flowers, 
Before the threshold stands to welcome us ! 
While, in the flowering myrtle's neighborhood, 
Not overlooked but courting no regard. 
Those native plants, the holly and the yew. 
Gave modest intimation to the mind 
How willingly their aid they would unite 
Willi the green myrtle, to endear the hours 
Of winter, and protect that pleasant place. 
- Wild were. the walks upon those lonely Downs, 
Track leading into track ; how marked, how worn 
Into bright verdure, between fern and gorse. 
Winding away its never-ending line 
On their smooth sm'face, evidence was none : 
But, there, lay open to our daily haunt, 
A range of unappropriated earth. 
Where youth's ambitious feet might move at large ; 
Whence, unmolested wanderers, we beheld 
The shining giver of the day diffuse 
His brightness o'er a tract of sea and land 
Gay as our spirits, free, as our desires L 
As our enjoyments, boundless. — From those heights 
We dropped, at pleasure, into sylvan combs ; 
Where arbors of impenetrable shade. 
And mossy seats, detained us side by side. 
With hearts at ease,, and knowledge in our hearts 
* That all the grave and all the day was ours»' 



©ESPONDENCt. ion 

O happy tii&e 1 still happier was at liaiid ^ 
For Nature called my Partner to resign 
Her share in the pure freedona of that life. 
Enjoyed by us in common.— To my hope, 
To my heart's wish, my tender Mate became 
The thankful captive of maternal bonds ; 
And those wiid paths were left to me alone. 
There ceuid I meditate on follies past ; 
And, like a weary voyager escaped 
From risk and hardship, inwardly retrace 
A course of vain delights and thoughtless guilt, 
And self-indulgence — without shame pursued. 
There, imdisturbed, could think of and could thank 
Her whose submissive spirit was to me 
Eule and restraint— my guardian— shall I say 
That earthly Providence, whose guiding love 
Within a port of rest had lodged me safe ; 
Safe from temptation, and from danger far ? 
Strains followed of acknowledgment addressed 
To an Authority enthroned above 
The reach of sight ; from whom, as froMi theiir source, 
Proceed all visible ministers of good 
That walk the earth — Father of heaven and earth, 
Father, and king, and judge, adored and feared I 
These acts of mind, and memory, and heart, 
And spirit^ — interrupted and relieved 
By observations transient as the glance 
Of flying sunbeams, or to the outward form 
Cleaving with power inherent and intense, 
As the mute insect i&xed upon the plant 
On whose soft leaves it hangs, and from whose cup 
It draws its nourishment imperceptibly— 

a* 




102 THE EXCURSION. 

Endeared my wanderings ; and the mother's Ms» 
And infant's sraile awaited my retiarn'. 

In privacy we dwelt, a wedded pair^ 
Companions daily, often all day long ; 
Not placed by fortune within easy reach 
Of various mtercaurse, nor wishing aught 
Beyond the allowance of our own fire-side,. 
The twain within our happy cottage born. 
Inmates, and heirs of our united love ; 
Graced mutually by difference af sex. 
And with no wider interval of time 
Between their several births than served for oa& 
To establish something of a leader's sway ; 
Yet left them joined by sympathy in age ; 
Equals in pleasure, fellows in pursuit,. 
On these two pillars rested as in air 
Our solitude. 

It soothes me ta perceive^ 
Your courtesy withholds not from my wards 
Attentive audience. But, oh ! gentle Friends,- 
As times of quiet and unbroken peace^ 
Though, for a nation, times of blessedness^ 
Give back faint echoes from the historian's page ;. 
Fo, in the imperfect sounds of this discourse. 
Depressed I hear, how faithless is the voice 
Which those most blissful days reverberate.- 
What special record can,, or need, be given 
To rules and habits, whereby much was done> 
But all within the sphere of little things ; 
Of humble, though, to us, important cares,. 
And precious interests ? Smoothly did our life 
Advance, swerving not from the path prescribecE; . 



DESPONDENCY. 103 

Her anmial, her diurnal, round alike 

Maintained with faithful care. And you divine 

The worst effects that our condition saw 

If you imagine changes slowly wroughtj 

And in t^^f^iv progress unperceivable ; 

Not wished for ; sometimes noticed with a sigh, 

(Whate'^ '^^ g^<^d. or lovely they might bring) 

Sighs of regret, for the familiar good 

And lovelines? endeared which they removed. 

Seven v ^-^^^ of occupation undisturbed 
Established seemingly a right to hold 
That happine<« ; and use and habit gave 
To what an alien spirit had acquired 
A patrimonial sanctity. And thus, 
With thoughts and wishes bounded to this world, 
I lived and breathed ; most grateful— if to enjoy 
Without '•f^piTiing or desire for more, 
For different lot, or change to higher sphere, 
(Only except some impulses of pride 
With no determined object, though upheia 
By theories with suitable support) — 
Most grateful, if in such wise to enjuy 
Be proof of gratitude for what we nave ; 
Else, I allow, most thankless.-^ — But, at once, 
From some dark seat of fatal power was ui'ged 
A claim that shattered all. — ^Our blooming girl, 
Caught in the gripe of death, with such brief time 
To struggle in as scarcely would allow 
Her cheek to change its color, was conveyed 
From us to inaccessible worlds, to regions 
Where height, or depth, admits not the approach 
Of living man, though longing to pursue. 



!04 THE EXCURSION. 

—"Mtli even as brief a warning — ^and hovr soon, 
With what short interval of time between> 
I tremble yet to think of— our last prop, 
Our happy life's only remaining stay — 
^he brother followed ■, and was seen no mOiX; i 

Oalm as a frozen lake when ruthless wiuca 
Blow fiercely, agitating earth and sky, 
The Mother now remained ; as if in Aei, 
Who, to the lowest region of the soul, 
Had been erewhile unsettled and distwiVAj**, 
This second visitation had no power 
To shake ; but only to bind up and se&» , 
And to establish thankfulness of hea/i 
in Heaven^s determinations, ever just. 
The eminence whereon her spirit stood, 
Mine was unable to attain. Immense 
The space that severed us ! But, as the light 
Communicates with heaven's ethereal orbs 
Incalculably distant ; so, I felt 
That consolation may descend from far 
(And that is intercourse, and union, too,) 
While, overcome with speechless gratitude. 
And, with a holier love inspired, I looked 
On her— at once superior to my woes 
And partner of my loss.— heavy change 
Dimness o'er this clear luminary crept 
Insensibly ;— the immortal and divine 
Yielded to mortal reflux ; her pure glory. 
As from the pinnacle of worldly state 
Wretched ambition drops astounded, fell 
Into a gulf obscure of silent grief. 
And keen heart-anguish — of itself ashamed. 



DESPONDENCY. 103 

Yet obstinately cherishing itself : 

And, so consumed, she melted from my arms • 

And left me, on this earth, disconsolate ! 

What followed cannot be reviewed in thought , 
Much less, retraced in words. If she, of life 
Blameless, so intimate with love and joy 
And all the tender motions of the soul, 
Had been supplanted, could I hope to stand — 
Infirm, dependent, and now destitute ? 
I called on dreams and visions, to disclose 
That which is veiled from waking thought ; conjured 
Eternity, as men constrain a ghost 
To appear and answer ; to the grave I spake 
Imploring / ; — looked up, and asked the Heavens 
If Angel .5 traversed their cerulean floors. 
If fixed or wandering star could tidings yield 
Of the departed spirit — what abode 
It occupies — what consciousness retains 
Of former loves and interests. Then my soul 
Turned inward, — to examine of what stuff 
Time's fetters are composed ; and life was put 
To inquisition, long and profitless ! 
By pain of heart — now checked — and now impelled — 
The mtellectual power, through words and things. 
Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way ! 
And from those transports, and these toils abstruse, 
Some trace am I enabled to retain 
Of time, else lost ; — existing unto me 
Only by records in myself not found. 

From that abstraction I was roused, — and how 2 
Even as a thoughtful shepherd by a flash 



106 THE EXCURSION. 

Of lightning startled in a gloomy cave 

Of these wild hills. For, lo ! the dread Bastile, 

With all the chambers in its horrid towers, 

Fell to the ground : — by Adolence overthrown 

Of indignation ; and with shouts that drowned 

The crash it made in falling ! From the wreck 

A golden palace rose, or seemed to rise, 

The appointed seat of equitable law 

And mild paternal sway. The potent shock 

I felt : the transformation I perceived. 

As marvellously seized as in that moment 

"HThen, from the blind mist issuing, I beheld 

Glory — beyond all glory ever seen. 

Confusion infinite of heaven and earth, 

Dazzling the soul. Meanwhile, prophetic harps 

In every grove were ringing, ' War shall cease ; 

' Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured ? 

' Bring garlands, bring forth choicest flowers, to deck 

' The tree of Liberty.' — My heart rebounded; 

My melancholy voice the chorus joined ; 

— ' Be joyful all ye nations ; in all lands, 

* Ye that are capable of joy be glad ! 

* Henceforth, whate'er is wanting to yourselves 

* In others ye shall promptly find ; — and all, 
' Enriched by mutual and reflected wealth, 

' Shall with one heart honor their common kind.* 

Thus was I reconvei-ted to the world ; 
Society became my glittering bride, 
And airy hopes my children. — From the depths 
Of natural passion, seemingly escaped. 
My soul diff'used herself in wide embrace 
Of institutions, and the forms of things ; 



DESPONDENCY. 107 

As they exist, in mutable array, 

Upon life's surface. What, though in my veins 

There flowed no Gallic blood, nor had I breathed 

The air of France, not less than Gallic zeal 

Kindled and burnt among the sapless twigs 

Of my exhausted heart. If busy men 

In sober conclave met, to weave a web 

Of amity, whose living threads should stretch 

Beyond the seas, and to the farthest pole, 

There did I sit, assisting. If, with noise 

And acclamation, crowds in open air 

Expressed the tumult of their minds, my voice 

There mingled, heard or not. The powers of song 

I left not uninvoked ; and, in still groves 

Where mild enthusiasts tuned a pensive lay 

Of thanks and expectation, in accord 

With their belief, I sang Saturnian rule 

Returned, — a progeny of golden years 

Permitted to descend, and bless mankind. 

— With promises the Hebrew Scriptures teem : 

I felt their invitation ; and resumed 

A long-suspended office in the House 

Of public worship, where, the glowing phrase 

Of ancient inspiration serving me, 

I promised also, — with undaunted trust 

Foretold, and added prayer to prophecy ; 

The admiration winning of the crowd ; 

The help desiring of the pure devout. 

Scorn and contempt forbid me to proceed! 
But History, time's slavish scribe, will tell 
How rapidly the zealots of the cause 
Disbanded — or in hostile ranks appeared ; 



108 THE EXCURSION. 

Some, tired of honest service; tliese, outdone, 

Disgusted therefore, or appalled, by aims 

Of fiercer zealots — so confusion reigned, 

And the more faithful were compelled to exclaim, 

As Brutus did to Virtue, ' Liberty, 

* I worshipped thee, and find thee but a Shade !' 

Such recantation had for me no charm, 
l^or would I bend to it : who should have grieved 
At aught, however fair, that bore the mien 
Of a conclusion, or catastrophe. 
Why then conceal, that, when the simply good 
In timid selfishness withdrew, I sought 
Other support, not scrupulous whence it came; 
And, by what compromise it stood, not nice ? 
Enough if notions seemed to be high-pitched. 
And qualities determined. — Among men 
So charactered did I maintain a strife 
Hopeless, and still more hopeless every hour ; 
But, in the process, I began to feel 
That, if the emancipation of the world 
Were missed, I should at least secure my own. 
And be in part compensated. For rights. 
Widely — inveterately usurped upon, 
I spake with vehemence ; and promptly seized 
All that Abstraction furnished for my needs 
Or purposes ; nor scrupled to proclaim. 
And propagate, by liberty of life. 
Those new persuasions. Not that I rejoiced, 
Or even found pleasure, in such vagrant course. 
For its own sake ; but farthest from the walk 
Which 1 had trod in happiness and peace. 
Was most inviting to a troubled mind ; 



DESPONDENCY. 109 

That, in a struggling and distempered world. 
Saw a seductive image of herself. 
Yet, mark the contradictions of which Man 
Is still the sport ! Here Nature was my guide. 
The Nature of the dissolute ; but thee, 

fostering Nature ! I rejected — smiled 
At others' tears in pity ; and in scorn 

At those, which thy soft influence sometimes drew 
From my unguarded heart. — The tranquil shores 
Of Britain circumscribed me ; else, perhaps 

1 might have been entangled among deeds, 
Which, now, as infamous, I should abhor — 
Despise, as senseless : for my spirit relished 
Strangely the exasperation of that Land, 
Which turned an angry beak against the down 
Of her own breast : confounded into hope 

Of disencumbering thus her fretful wings. 

But all was quieted by iron bonds 
Of military sway. The shifting aims. 
The moral interests, the creative might 
The varied functions and high attributes 
Of civil action, yielded to a power 
Formal, and odious, and contemptible. 
— In Britain, ruled a panic dread of change ; 
The weak were praised, rewarded, and advanced ; 
And, from the impulse of a just disdain, 
Once more did I retire into myself. 
There feeling no contentment, I resolved 
To fly, for safeguard, to some foreign shore, 
Remote from Europe ; fiom her blasted hopes ; 
Her fields of carnage, and polluted air, 



10 



110 THE EXGDESION. 

Fresh blew the wind, when o'er the Atlantic Main 
The ship went ghding with her thoughtless crew ; 
And who among them but an Exile, freed 
From discontent, indifferent, pleased to sit 
Among the busily-employed, not more 
With obligation charged, with service taxed. 
Than the loose pendant — to the idle wind 
Upon the tall mast streaming. But, ye Powers 
Of soul and sense mysteriously alUed, 
0, never let the Wretched, if a choice 
Be left him, trust the freight of his distress 
To a long voyage on the silent deep ! 
For, like a plague, will memory break out ; 
And, in the blank and solitude of things. 
Upon his spirit, with a fever's strength. 
Will conscience prey. — Feebly must they have felt 
Who, in old time, attired with snakes and whips 
The vengeful Furies. Beautiful regards 
Were turned on me — the face of her I loved ; 
The Wife and Mother pitifully fixing 
Tender reproaches, insupportable ! 
Where now that boasted liberty ? No welcome 
From unknown objects I received ; and those. 
Known and familiar, which the vaulted sky 
Did, in the placid clearness of the night. 
Disclose, had accusations to prefer 
Against my peace. Within the cabin stood 
That volume — as a compass for the soul — 
Revered among the nations. I implored 
Its guidance ; but the infallible support 
Of faith was wanting. Tell me, why refused 
To One by storms annoyed and adverse winds; 
Perplexed with currents ; of his weakness sick ; 



DESPONDENCY, 111 

Of vain endeavors tired ; and by his own, 
And by his nature's, ignorance, -dismayed ! 

Long-wished-for sight, the Western World ap- 
peared ! 
And, when the ship was moored, I leaped ashore 
Indignantly — resolved to be a man, 
Who, having o'er the past no power, would live 
Mo longer in subjection to the past, 
With abject mind — from a tyrannic lord 
Inviting penance, fruitlessly endured : 
So, like a fugitive, whose feet have cleared 
Some boundary, which his followers may not cross 
In prosecution of their deadly chase, 
Respiring I looked round. — How bright the sun. 
The breeze how soft 1 Can any thing produced 
In the old World compare, thought I, for power 
And majesty with this gigantic stream. 
Sprung from the desert ? And behold a city 
Fresh, youthful, and aspiring ! What are these 
To me, or I to them ? As much at least 
As he desires that they should be, whom winds 
And waves have wafted to this distant shore. 
In the condition of a damaged seed. 
Whose fibres cannot, if they would, take root. 
Here may I roam at large ; — ray business is, 
Eoaming at large, to observe, and not to feel 
And, therefore, not to act — convinced that aK 
Which bears the name ©f action, howso'er 
Beginning, ends in servitude — still painful. 
And mostly profitless. And, sooth to say. 
On nearer view, a motley spectacle 
Af^eaxei, (^ Ijigh pretemsiens — uBr^eproveil 





, 




112 THE EXCURSION. 




But by the obstreperoiis voice of higher still ; 




Big passions strutting on a petty stage ; 




Which a detached spectator may regard 




Not unaxnused. — But ridicvile demands 




Quick change of objects ^ and, to laugh alone. 




At a composing distance from the haunts 




Of strife and folly, though it be a treat 




As choice as musing Leisure can bestow ; 




Yet, in the very centre of the crowd. 




To keep the secret of a poignant scorn. 




Howe'er to airy Demons suitable. 




Of all unsocial cowses, is least fit i 




For the gross spirit of mankind,— the one 




That soonest fails to please, and quickliest turns ; 




Into vexation. 




Let us, then, I said. 




Leave this xmknit Republic to the scourge 




Of her own passions • and to regions haste, i 




Whose shades have never felt the encroaching a%% 




Or soil endured a transfer in the mart 




Of dire rapacity. There, Man abides. 




Primeval Nature's child. A creature weak 




In combination, (wherefore eke driven back ; 




So far, and of his old inheritance i 




So easily deprived ?) but, for that cause,, ' 




More dignified, and stronger in himself ; 




Whether to act, judge, sujfFer, or enjoy. 




True, the intelligence of social art ; 




Hath overpowered his forefathers, and soob 




Will sweep the remnant of his Mne away ; 




But contemplations, v^orthior, nobler far 




Than her destructive energies, attend ; 




His independence, when along the sid© 

, ^ , ,' 







.-^■,.^y.> -^,-^^...-^.^. ,.^^.^.^ 



DSS'PONDENCY. m 

Of Mississippi, or that northern stream* 
That spreads into successive seas, he walks '; 
S*ieased to perceive his otvn tinshackled. life, 
And his innate capacities of soul, 
^here imaged : or wh«n, having gained the top 
'Of some commanding eniiinence, which yet 
Intrud>er ne'er beheld, he thence surveys 
Regions of -Wood and wide savatmah, vast 
Expame di unappropriated eaitth, 
With mind that sheds a light on what he sees J 
iFree as th'e sun, and lonely as the sun, 
i*ouring above his head its radiance down 
Upon a fiving aaid rejoicing world ! 

So, westward, tow'rd tbe unviolated Woods 
I bent my Way ; and, roaming far and wide, 
Failed not to greet the merry Mocking-bird 5 
And, while the melajicholy Muccawiss 
(The sportive bird's companion in the grove) 
iR«pea,ted, o'er and o^er, his plaintive cry, 
I sympatbised at leisure with the sound ; 
But that pure archetype of human greatness, 
I found him not. There, in his st^ad, appeared 
A creature, squalid, vengeful, and impure ; 
Remorseless, and submissive to no law 
But superstitious fear, and abject sloth. 

Enough is told I Here am I — ye have heard 
What evidence I seek, and vainly seek ; 
What from my fellow-beings I require, 
And either they have not to give, or I 
Lack virtue to receive ; what I myself, 
To© oft by wilful forfeiture, have lost 
10* 



lU THE BXGURSIQN, 

INor can regain. How languidly I lools 

Upon this visible fabric of tbe world. 

May be di^^ned — ^perbaps it hatb been said :— 

But spare your pity, if there be in me 

Aught that deserves respect : for I exists 

Within myself, not comfortless-— The tenor 

Which my life holds, he readily may conceive 

Whoe'er hath stood to watch a motintarn broofe 

In some still passage of its course, and seen. 

Within the depths of its capacious breast. 

Inverted trees, rocfes, clouds, and azure sky ; 

And, on its glassy surface, specka of foam. 

And conglobated bubbles undissolved, 

Numerous as stars ; that, by their onward lapse. 

Betray to sight the motion of the stream. 

Else imperceptible. Meanwhile, is heard 

A softened roar, or murmur ; and the sound 

Though soothing, and the little floating isles 

Though beautiful, are both by Kature charged 

With the same pensive office ; and make known 

Through what perplexing labyrinths, abrupt 

Precipitations, and untoward straits, 

The earth-born wanderer hatb passed ; and quickjy. 

That respite o'er, like traverses and toils 

Must he again encounter. — Such a stream 

Is human Life ; and so the Spirit fares 

In the best quiet to her course allowed ; 

And such is mine, — save only for a hope 

That my particular current soon will reacli 

The unfathomable gulf, where all is still f 



THE RXCURSIO??, 



BOOK FOURTH^ 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 



ARGUMENT . 



State of feeling produced by the foregoing Nan-ative. — ^A belief in a 
superintending Providence the only adequate support under affliction. 
— Wanderer acknowledges the difficulty of a lively faith. — Hence im- 
moderate sorrow. — Exhortations — How received. — Wanderer applies 
his discourse to that other cause of dejection in the Solitary's mind. — 
Disappointment fVom the French Revolution. — States grounds of 
hope, and insists on the necessity of patience and fortitude with respect 
to the course of great revolutions. — Knowledge th» source of ti-an- 
quillity — Rvj'al S>li;u(ie favorubte to knowledge of the inferior crea- 
tiu'es ; Study of their habits and ways recommended ; exhortation to 
bodily exertion and communion with Nature. — Morbid Solitude 
pitiable — Superstition better than apathy.— Apathy and destitution 
unknown in the infancy of society. — The various modes of Religion 
prevented it. — Wanderer points out the influence of reUgious and 
imaginative feeling in the humble ranks of society. — These principlea 
tend to recall exploded superstitions and popery. — ^Wanderer rebuts 
this charge, and contrasts the dignities of the Imagination with the 
presumptuous littleness of certain modern Philosophers. — Recom- 
mends other lights and guides. — Asserts the power of the Soul to 
regenerate herself. — Exhortation to activity of body renewed. — How ■ 
to commune with Nature. — Wanderer concludes with a legitimate 
union of the imagination, affections, understanding, and reason.— 
Effect of his discourse. — Evening: Return to the Cottage. 

TJERE closed the Tenant of that lonely vale 

His mournful narrative — commenced in pain, 
In pain commenced, and ended without peace : 
Yet tempered, not unfrequently vdth strains 
Of native feeling, grateful to our minds ; 
And yielding surely some relief to his. 
While we sate listening with compassion due. 
A pause of silence followed ; then, with voice 
That did not falter though the heart was moved 
The Wanderer said : — 

117 



118 THE EXCURSION. 

" One adequate support 
For the calamities of mortal life 
Exists — one only ; an assured belief 
That the procession of our fates, howe'er 
Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being 
Of infinite benevolence and power ; 
Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
All accidents, converting them to good. 
— The darts of anguish fix not where the seat 
Of suflfering hath been thoroughly fortified 
By acquiescence in the Will supreme. 
For time and for eternity ; by faith, 
Faith absolute in God, including hope. 
And the defence that lies in boundless love 
Of his perfections ; with habitual dread 
Of aught unworthily conceived, endured 
Impatiently, ill-done, or left undone. 
To the dishonor of his holy name. 
Soul of our Souls, and safeguard of the world ! 
Sustain, thou only canst, the sick of heart ; 
Restore their languid spirits, and recall 
Their lost affections unto thee and thine !" 

Then, as we issued from that covert nook. 
He thus continued, lifting up his eyes 
To heaven : — " How beautiful this dome of sky ; 
And the vast hills, in fluctuation fixed 
At thy command, how awful ! Shall the Soul, 
Human and rational, report of thee 
Even less than these ? — Be mute who will, who can. 
Yet I will praise thee with impassioned voice ; 
My lips, that may forget thee in the crowd. 
Cannot forget thee here ; where thou hast built, 
For thy own glory, in the wilderness ! 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 11» 

Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine, 

In such a temple as we now behold 

Reared for thy presence ; therefore, am I bound 

To worship, here, and everywhere — as one 

Not doomed to ignorance, though forced to tread, 

From childhood up, the ways of poverty ; 

From unreflecting ignorance preserved. 

And from debasement rescued. — By thy grace 

The particle divine remained unquenched ; 

And, mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil, 

Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless flowers. 

From paradise transplanted : wintry age 

Impends ; the frost will gather round my heart , 

If the flowers wither, I am worse than dead ! 

— Come labor, when the worn out frame requires 

Perpetual Sabbath ; come, disease and want ; 

And sad exclusion through decay of sense ; 

But leave me unabated trust in thee — 

And let thy favor, to the end of life. 

Inspire me with ability to seek 

Repose and hope among eternal things — 

Father of heaven and earth ! and I am rich, 

And will possess my portion in content ! 

And what are things eternal ! — powers depart," 
The grey-haired Wanderer steadfastly replied. 
Answering the question which himself had asked, 
" Possessions vanish, and opinions change. 
And passions hold a fluctuating seat ; 
But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken. 
And subject neither to eclipse nor wane. 
Duty exists ; — immutably survive, 
For our support, the measures and the forms, 
Which an abstract intelligence supplies ; 



120 THE EXCURSION. 

Whose kingdom is, where time and space aie not. 
Of other converse which mind, soul, and heart, 
Do with united urgency require. 
What more that may not perish ?— -Thou, dread 

source, 
Prime, self-existing cause and end of all, 
That in the scale of being fill their place ; 
Above our human region, or below. 
Set and sustained ; — thou, who didst wrap the cloud 
Of infancy around us, that thyself, 
Therein, with our simplicity awhile 
Might'st hold on earth, communion undisturbed ; 
Who from t'he anarchy of dreaming sleep. 
Or from its death-like void, with punctual caa-e^ 
And touch as gentle as the morninsf light, 
Restor'st us, daily, to the powers of sense 
And reason's steadfast rule— thou, thou alone 
Art everlasting, and the blessed Spirits, 
Which thou includ'st, as the sea her waves : 
For adoration thou endur'st ; endure 
For consciousness the motions of thy will ; 
For apprehension those transcendent truths 
Of the pure intellect, that stand as laws 
(Submission constituting strength and power) 
Even to thy Being's infinite majesty ! 
This universe shall pass away — a work 
Glorious ! because the shadow of thy might, 
A step, or link, for intercourse with thee. 
Ah ! if the time must come, in which my feet 
No more shall stray where meditation leads. 
By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild, 
Loved haunts like these ; the unimprisoned Mind 
May yet have scope to range among her own. 
Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 121 

If the dear faculty of sight should fail, 

Still, it may be allowed me to remember 

What visionary powers of eye and soul 

In youth were mine ; when, stationed on the top 

Of some huge hill — expectant, I beheld 

The sun rise up, from distant climes returned 

Darkness to chase, and sleep ; and bring the day 

His bounteous gift ! or saw him toward the deep 

Sink, with a retinue of flaming clouds 

Attended : then, my spirit was entranced 

With joy exalted to beatitude ; 

The measure of my soul was filled with bliss, 

And holiest love ; as earth, sea, air, with light, 

With pomp, with glory, with magnificence ! 

Those fervent raptures are for ever flown ; 
And, since their date, my soul hath undergone 
Change manifold, for better or for worse : 
Yet cease I not to struggle, and aspire 
Heavenward ; and chide the part of me that flags. 
Through sinful choice ; or dread necessity 
On human nature from above imposed. 
'T is, by comparison, an easy task 
Earth to despise;^ but, to converse with heaven — 
This is not easy : — to relinquish all 
We have, or hope, of happiness and joy. 
And stand in freedom loosened from this world, 
I deem not arduous ; but must needs confess 
That 't is a thing impossible to frame 
Conceptions equal to the soul's desires ; 
And the most difficult of tasks to keep 
Heights which the soul is competent to gain. 
— Man is of dust : ethereal hopes are his. 
Which, when they should sustain themselves aloft, 
11 



f22 THE EXCURSION. 

Y/ant due consistence ; like a pillar of sraoke^ 

That with majestic energy from earth 

Rises ; but, having reached the thinner air. 

Melts, and dissolves, and is no longer seen. 

From this infirmity of mortal kind 

Sorrow proceeds, which else were not ; at leasts 

If grief be something hallowed and ordained. 

If, in proportion, it be just and meet, 

Yet, through this weakness of the general heart. 

Is it enabled to maintain its hold 

In that excess which conscience disapproves. 

For who could sink and settle to that point 

Of selfishness ; so senseless who could be 

i\.s long and perseveringly to mourn 

For any object of his love, removed 

From this unstable world, if he could fix 

A satisfying view upon that state 

Of pure, imperishable blessedness. 

Which reason promises, and holy writ 

Ensures to all believers ? — Yet mistrust 

Is of such incapacity, methinks, 

No natural branch ; despondency far less ; 

And least of all, is absolute despair. 

— And, if there be whose tender frames have drooped 

Even to the dust ; apparently, through weight 

Of anguish unrelieved, and lack of power 

An agonizing sorrow to transmute ; 

Deem not that proof is here of hope withheld 

When wanted most ; a confidence impaired 

So pitiably, that, having ceased to see 

With bodily eyes, they are borne down by love 

Of what is lost, and perish through regret. 

Oh ! no, the innocent Sufferer often sees 

Too clearly ; feels too vividly ; and longs 



DESPONnSNCY CORRECTED. 

To realize the vision, with intense 

And ovei--<MJnstant yearning ; — there — there lies 

The excess, by which the balance is destroyed. 

Too, too contracted, are these walls of flesh, 

This vital warmth too cold, these visual orbs. 

Though inconceivably endowed, too dim 

For any passion of the soul that leads 

To ecstasy ; and, all the crooked paths 

Of time and change disdaining, takes its course 

Along the line of limitless desires, 

I, speaking now from such disorder free, 

Nor rapt, nor craving, but ki settled peace, 

I cannot doubt that they whom you deplore 

Are glorified ; or, if they sleep, shall wake 

From sleep, and dwell with God in endless love. 

Hope, below this, consists not with belief 

In mercy, carried infinite degrees 

Beyond the tenderness of human hearts : 

Hope, below this, consists not with belief 

In perfect wisdom, guiding mightiest power 

That finds no limits but her own pure wilL 

Here then we rest ; not fearina: for our creed 
The worst that human reasoning can achieve, 
To uasetfie or perplex it^ yet with pain 
Acknowledging, and grievous self-reproach. 
That, though immovably convinced, we want 
Zeal, and the virtue to exist by faith 
As soldiers live by courage; as, by strength 
Of heart, the sailor fights with roaring seas, 
Alas ! the endowment of immortal power 
Is matched unequally with custom, time,* 
And domineering faculties of sense 
la all ; in most with superadded foes. 






124 THE EXCURSION. 

Idle temptations; open vanities, 

Ephemeral oflfspring of the unblushing world ; 

And, in the private regions of the mind, 

Ill-governed passions, ranklings of despite. 

Immoderate wishes, pining discontent. 

Distress and care. What then remains ? — To seek 

Those helps for his occasions ever near 

Who lacks not will to use them ; vows, renewed 

On the first motion of a holy thought ; 

Vigils of contemplation ; praise ; and prayer — 

A stream, which, from the fountain of the heart 

Issuing, however feebly, nowhere flows 

Without access of unexpected strength. 

But, above all, the victory is most sure 

For him, who, seeking faith by virtue, strives 

To yield entire submission to the law 

Of conscience — conscience reverenced and obeyed. 

As God's most intimate presence in the soul, 

And his most perfect image in the world. 

— Endeavor thus to live ; these rules regard ; 

These helps solicit ; and a steadfast seat 

Shall then be yours among the happy few 

Who dwell on earth, yet breathe empyreal air. 

Sons of the morning. For your nobler part, 

Ere disencumbered of her mortal chains 

Doubt shall be quelled and trouble chased away; 

With only such degree of sadness left 

As may support longings of pure desire ; 

And strengthen love, rejoicing secretly 

In the sublime attractions of the grave." 

While, in this strain, the venerable Sage 
Poured forth his aspirations, and announced 
His judgments, near that lonely house we paced 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 125 

'A. plot of greefi-sv/ard, seemingly preserv^ed 

By nature's care from wreck of scattered stones. 

And from encroachment of encircling lieatli : 

Small space ! but, for reiterated steps, 

Smooth and commodious : as a stately deck 

Which to and fro the mariner is used 

To tread for pastime, talking with his mates, 

Or haply thinking of far-distant friends, 

While the ship glides before a steady breeze. 

Stillness prevailed around us ! and the voice 

That spake was capable to lift the sou] 

Toward regions yet more tranquil. But, methought, 

That he, whose fixed despondency had given 

Impulse and motive to that strong discourse, 

Was less upraised in spirit than abashed ; 

Shrinking from admonition, like a man 

Who feels that to exhort is to reproach* 

Yet not to be diverted from his aim, 

The Sage continued : 

" For that other loss. 
The loss of confidence in social man, 
By the unexpected transports of our age 
Carried so high, that every thought, which looked 
Beyond the temporal destiny of the Kind, 
To many seemed superfluous — -as, no cause 
Could e'er for such exalted confidence 
Exist ; so, none is now for fixed despair : 
The two extremes are equally disowned 
By reason : if, with sharp recoil, from one 
You have been driven far as its opposite. 
Between them seek the point whereon to build 
Swund expectations. So doth he advise 
Who shared at first the illusion ; but was soon 
Cast from the pedestal of pride by shocks 
U* 



126 THEEXCUKSION. 

« 

WhicTi Nature gently gave, in Woods and fields ; 

Nor unreproved by Providence, thus speaking 

To the inattentive children of the world : 

' Vain-glorious Generation ! what new powers 

On you have been conferred ? what gifts, withheld 

From your progenitors, have ye received. 

Fit recompense of new desert? what claim 

Are ye prepared to urge, that my decrees 

For you should undergo a sudden change ; 

And the weak functions of one busy day. 

Reclaiming and extirpating, perform 

What all the slowly-moving years of time. 

With their united force, have left undone ? 

By nature's gradual processes be taught ; 

By story be confounded ! Ye aspire 

Rashly, to fall once more ; and that false fruit, 

Which, to your over-weening spirits, yields 

Hope of a flight celestial, will produce 

Misery and shame. But Wisdom of her sons 

Shall not the less, though late, be justified.' 

Such timely warning," said the Wanderer, "gave 
That visionary voice ; and, at this day. 
When a Tartarean darkness overspreads 
The groaning nations ; when the impious rule. 
By will or by established ordinance, 
Their own dire agents, and constrain the good 
To acts which they abhor ; though I bewail 
This triumph, yet the pity of my heart 
Prevents me not from owning, that the law 
By which mankind now sufiers, is most just. 
For by superior energies ; more strict 
Affiance in each other ; faith more firm 
In their unhallowed principles ; the bad 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 127 

Have fairly earned a victory o'er the weak. 

The vacillating, inconsistent good. 

Therefore, not unconsoled, I wait— in hope 

To see the moment, when the righteous cause 

Shall gain defenders zealous and devout 

As they who have opposed her ; in which Virtue 

Will, to her efforts, tolerate no bounds 

That are not lofty as her rights ; aspiring 

By impulse of her own ethereal zeal. 

That spirit only can redeem mankind ; 

And when that sacred spirit shall appear. 

Then shall our triumph be complete as theirs. 

Yet, should this confidence prove vain, the wise 

Have still the keeping of their proper peace ; 

Are guardians of their own tranquillity. 

They act, or they recede, observe and feel ; 

' Knowing the heart of man is set to be^ 

The centre of this world, about the which 

Those revolutions of disturbances 

Still roll ; where all the aspects of misery 

Predominate ; whose strong effects are such 

As he must bear, being powerless to redress j 

And that unless above himself he can 

JSrect himself, how poor a thing is Man ./'* 

Happy is he who lives to understand, 
Not human nature only, but explores 
All natures, — to the end that he may find 
The law that governs each ; and where begins 
The union, the partition where, that makes 
Kind and degree, among all visible Beings j 
The constitutions, powers, and faculties, 
Which they inherit, — cannot step beyond,— 
And cannot fall beneath ; that do assign 

♦ DanieL 





»>, 


128 THE EXCURSION. 




To every class its station and its office, 




Through all the mighty commonwealth of things ; 




Up from the creeping plant to sovereign Man» 




Such converse, if directed by a meek, 




Sincere, and humble spirit, teaches love : 




For knowledge is delight; and such delight 




Breeds love ; yet, suited as it rather is 




To thought and to the climbing intellect, 




It teaches less to love, than to adore ; 




If that be not indeed the highest love !" 




*' Yet," said I, tempted here to interpose, 




" The dignity of life is not impaired 




By aught that innocently satisfies 




The humbler cravings of the heart ; and he 




Is a still happier man, who, for those heights 




Of speculation not unfit, descends ; 




And such benign affections cultivates 




Among the inferior kinds ; not merely those 




That he may call his own, and which depend, 




As individual objects of regard, 




tJpon his care, from whom he also looks 




For signs and tokens of a mutual bond ; 




But others, far beyond this narrow sphere, 




Whom, for the very sake of love, he loves. 




Nor is it a mean praise of rural life 




And solitude, that they do favor most. 




Most frequently call forth, and best sustain, 




These pure sensations ; that can penetrate 




The obstreperous city ; on the barren seas 




Are not unfelt ; and much might recommend. 




How much they might inspirit and endear, 




The loneliness of this sublime retreat !" 




-.. ^ - 





DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 129 

" Yes," said the Sage, resuming the discourse 
Again directed to his downcast Friend, 
" If, with the froward will and grovelling soul 
Of man, offended, hberty is here, 
And invitation every hour renewed. 
To mark their placid state, who never heard 
Of a command which they have power to break, 
Or rule which they are tempted to transgress : 
These, with a soothed or elevated heart. 
May we behold ; their knowledge register ; 
Observe their ways ; and, free from envy, find 
Complacence there : — but wherefore this to you? 
I guess that, welcome to your lonely hearth, 
The redbreast, ruffled up by winter's cold 
Into a 'feathery bunch,' feeds at your hand : 
A box, perchance, is from your casement hung 
For the small wren to build in ; — not in vain, 
The barriers disregarding that surround 
This deep abidmg place, before your sight 
Mounts on the breeze the butterfly ; and soars, 
Small creature as she is, from earth's bright flowers 
Into the dewy clouds. Ambition reigns 
In the Tvaste wilderness : the Soul ascends 
Drawn towards her native firmament of heaven, 
When the fresh eagle, in the month of May, 
Upborne, at evening, on replenished wing. 
This shaded valley leaves ; and leaves the dark 
Empurpled hills, conspicuously renewing 
A proud communication with the sun 
Low sunk beneath the horizon ! — List ! — I heard, 
From yon huge breast of rock, a voice sent forth 
As if the visible mountain made the cry. 
Again !" — The effect upon the soul was such 
As he expressed : from out the mountain's heart 



130 THE EXCURSION. 

The solemn voice appeared to issue, startling 
The blank air — for the region all around 
Stood empty of all shape of life, and silent 
Save for that single cry, the unanswered bleat 
Of a poor lamb — left somewhere to itself, 
The plaintive spirit of the solitude ! 
He paused, as if unwilling to proceed. 
Through consciousness that silence in such place 
Was best, the most affecting eloquence. 
But soon his thoughts returned upon themselves. 
And, in soft tone of speech, thus he resumed. 

" Ah ! if the heart, too confidently raised, 
Perchance too lightly occupied, or lulled 
Too easily, despise or overlook 
The vassalage that binds her to the earth, 
Her sad dependence upon time, and all 
The trepidations of mortality, 
What place so destitute and void — but there 
The little flower her vanity shall check ; 
The trailing worm reprove her thoughtless pride ? 

These craggy regions, these chaotic wilds. 
Does that benignity pervade, that warms 
The mole contented with her darksome walk 
In the cold ground ; and to the emmet gives 
Her foresight, and intelligence that makes 
The tiny creatures strong by social league 
Supports the generations, multiplies 
Their tribes, till we behold a spacious plain 
Or grassy bottom, all, with Httle hills — 
Their labor, covered, as a lake with waves ; 
Thousands of cities, in the desert place 
Built up of life, and food, and means of life ! 



DESPONDENCY CORKECTED. 131 

N'or wanting here to entertain the thought, 

Creatures that in communities exist, 

Less, as might seem, for general guardianship 

Or through dependence upon mutual aid. 

Than by participation of delight 

And a strict love of fellowship, combined. 

What other spirit can it be that prompts 

The gilded summer flies to mix and weave 

Their sports together in the solar beams, 

Or in the gloom of twilight hum their joy ? 

More obviously the self-same influence rules 

The feathered kinds ; the fieldfare's pensive flock, 

The cawing rooks, and sea-mews from afar, 

Hovering above these inland solitudes. 

By the rough wind unscattered, at whose call 

Up through the trenches of the long-drawn vales 

Their voyage was begun : nor is its power 

Unfelt among the sedentary fowl 

That seek yon pool, and there prolong their stay 

In silent congress ; or together roused 

Take flight ; while with their clang the air resounds. 

And, over all, in that ethereal vault. 

Is the mute company of changeful clouds ; 

Bright apparition, suddenly put forth. 

The rainbow smiling on the faded storm ; 

The mild assemblage of the starry heavens ; 

And the great sun, earth's universal lord ! 

How bountiful is Nature ! he shall find 
Who seeks not ; and to him, who hath not asked, 
Large measure shall be dealt. Three Sabbath-days 
Are scarcely told, since, on a service bent. 
Of mere humanity, you clomb those heights; 
And what a marvellous and heavenly show 






132 THE EXCURSION. 

Was suddenly revealed ! — the swains moved on 

And heeded not : you lingered, you perceived 

And felt, deeply as living man could feel. 

There is a luxury in self-dispraise ; 

And inward self-disparagement affords 

To meditative spleen a grateful feast. 

Trust me, pronouncing on your own desert, 

You judge unthankfuUy : distempered nerves 

Infect the thoughts : the languor of the frame 

Depresses the soul's vigor. Quit your couch — 

Cleave not so fondly to your moody cell ; 

"Nor let the hallowed powers, that shed from heaven 

Stillness and rest, with disapproving eye 

Look down upon your taper, through a watch 

Of midnight hours, unseasonably twinkling 

In this deep Hollow, like a sullen star 

Dimly reflected in a lonely pool. 

Take courage, and withdraw yourself from ways 

That run not parallel to nature's course. 

Rise with the lark ! your matins shall obtain 

Grace, be their composition what it may, 

If but with hers performed ; climb once again, 

Climb every day, those ramparts ; meet the breeze 

Upon their tops, adventurous as a bee 

That from your garden thither soars, to feed 

On new-blown heath ; let yon commanding rock 

Be your frequented watch-tower ; roll the stone 

In thunder down the mountains ; with all your 

might 
Chase the wild goat ; and if the bold red deer 
Fly to those harbors, driven by hound and horn 
Loud echoing, add your speed to the pursuit ; 
So, wearied to your hut shall you return. 
And sink at evening into sound repose." 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 133 

The Solitary lifted toward the hills 
A kiudling eye : — accordant feelings rushed 
Into my bosom, whence these words broke forth: 
" Oh ! what a joy it were, in vigorous health, 
To have a body (this our vital frame 
With shrinking sensibility endued, 
And all the nice regards of flesh and blood) 
And to the elements surrender it 
As if it were a spirit ! — How divine. 
The liberty, for frail, for mortal man. 
To roam at large among unpeopled glens 
And mountainous retirements, only trod 
By devious footsteps ; regions consecrate 
To oldest time ! and, reckless of the storm 
That keeps the raven quiet in her nest, 
Be as a presence or a motion — one 
Among the many- there ; and while the mists 
Flying, and rainy vapors, call out shapes 
And phantoms from the crags and solid earth 
As fast as a musician scatters sounds 
Out of an instrument ; and while the streams 
(As at a first creation and in haste 
To exercise their untried faculties) 
Descending from the region of the clouds. 
And starting from the hollows of the earth 
More multitudinous every moment, rend 
Their way before them — what a joy to roam 
An equal among mightiest energies ; 
And haply sometimes with articulate voice. 
Amid the deafening tumult, scarcely heard 
By him that utters it, exclaim aloud, 
' Kage on, ye elements ! let moon and stars 
Their aspects lend, and mingle in their turn 
12 



134 THBEXCUESION, 

With this commotron (ruinous though it be) 

From day to night, from night to day, prolonged f ^ 

"Yes," said the Wanderer, tahing from my lips 
The strain of transport, " whosoe'er in j'outh 
Has, through ambition of his soul, given way 
To such desires', and grasped at such delight. 
Shall feel congenial stirrings late and long, 
In spite of all the weakness that life brings, 
Its cares and sorrows ; he, though taught to own 
The tranquillizing power of time, shall wake. 
Wake sometimes to a noble restlessness — 
Loving the sports which once he gloried in. 

Compatriot, Friend, remote are Garry's hills. 
The streams far distant of your native glen ; 
Yet is their form and image here expressed 
With brotherly resemblance. Turn your steps 
Wherever fancy leads ; by day, by night, 
Are various engines working, not the same 
As those with which your soul in youth was moved, 
But by the great Artificer endowed 
With no inferior power. You dwell alone; 
You walk, you live, you speculate alone ; 
Yet doth remembrance, like a sovereign prince, 
For you a stately gallery maintain 
Of gay or tragic pictures. You have seen. 
Have acted, suffered, travelled far, observed 
With no incurious eye; and books are yours. 
Within whose silent chambers treasure lies 
Preserved from age to age ; more precious far 
Than that accumulated store of gold 
And orient gems, which, for a day of need. 
The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. I3:i 

These hoards of truth jq\i can unlock at will : 

And music waits upon your skilful touch, 

Sounds which the wanderirag shepherd from these 

heights 
Hears, and forgets his purpose ; — furnished, thus,, 
How can you droop, if willing to be upraised^ 

A piteous lot it were to flee from Man — 
Yet not rejoice in Nature. He, whose hours 
Are by domestic pleasures unearessed 
And unenlivened ; who exists whole years 
Apart frora benefits received or done 
'Mid the transactions of the bustling crowd ; 
Who neither hears, nor feels a wish to hear, 
Of the world's interests — such a one hath need 
Of a quick fancy, and an active heart. 
That, for the day's consumption, books may yield 
Food not unwholesome ; earth and air correct 
His morbid humor, with delight supplied 
Or solace, varying as the seasons change. 
— Truth has her pleasure-grounds, her haunts of 

ease 
And easy contemplation ; gay parterres, 
And labyrinthine walks, her sunny glades 
And shady groves in studied contrast — each, 
For recreation, leadiag into each : 
These may he range, if willing to partake 
Their soft indulgences, and in due time 
May issue thence, recruited for the tasks 
And course of service Truth requires from those 
Who tend her altars, wait upon her throne, 
And guard her fortresses. Who thinks, and feels. 
And recognises ever and anon 
The hreeze of aature stirring ia his soul. 



13fi THE EXCURSION. 

Wliy need sucli man go desperately astray. 
And nurse ' the dreadful appetite of death ?' 
If tired with systems, each in its degree 
Substantial, and all crumbling in their turn. 
Let liim build systems of his own, and smile 
At the fond work, demolished with a touch ; 
If unreligious, let him be at once 
Among ten thousand innocents, enrolled 
A pupil in the many-chambered school, 
"Wliere superstition weaves her airy dreams. 

Life's autumn past, I stand on winter's verge ; 
And daily lose what I desire to keep i 
Yet rather would I instantly decline 
To the traditionary sympathies 
Of a most rustic ignorance, and take 
A fearful apprehension from the owl 
Or death-watch : and as readily rejoice, 
If two auspicious magpies crossed my way ; — 
To this would rather bend tlian see and hear 
The repetitions wearisome of sense, 
Where soul is dead and feeling hath no place j 
Where knowledge, ill begun in cold remark 
On outward things, with formal inference ends ; 
Or, if the mind turn inward, she recoils 
At c-ire — or, not recoiling, is perplexed — 
Lost 11 gloom of uninspired research ; 
Meanwhile, the heart witliin the heart, the seat 
Where peace and happy consciousness should dwell. 
On its own axis restlessly revolving, 
Seeks, yet can nowhere find, the light of truth. 

Upon the breast of new-created earth 
Man walked ; and when and wheresoe'er he moved, 



DESPONDENCY CORHECTED. I'Sf 

Alone or mated, solitude was not. 
He heard, borne on the wind, the articulat'e voice 
Of God ; and Angeis to his sight appeared 
Crowniag the glorious hills of paradise ; 
Or through the groves gliding like morning mist 
Enkindled by the sun. He sate— and talked 
With winged Messengers ; who daily brought 
To his small island in the ethereal deep 
Tidings of joy and love. — From those pure heights 
(Whether of actual vision, sensible 
To siffht and feelinw, or that in this sort 
Have condescendingly been shadowed forth 
Communications spiritually maintained. 
And intuitions moral and divine) 
Fell Human-kind— to banishment condemned 
That flowing years repealed not : and distress 
And grief spread wide ; but Man escaped the doom 
Of destitution;— solitude was not. 
— Jehovah— shapeless Power above all Powers, 
Single and one, the omnipresent God, 
By vocal utterance, or blaze of light, 
Or cloud of darkness, localized in heaven ; 
On earth, enshrined within the wandering ark ; 
Or, out of Sion, thundering from his throne 
Between the Cherubim — -on the chosen Race 
Showered miracles, and ceased not to dispense 
Judgments, that filled the land from age to age 
With hope, and love, and gratitude, and fear; 
And with amazement smote ;-— thereby to assert 
His scorn, or unacknowledged sovereignty. 
And when the One, ineffable of name, 
Of nature indivisible, withdrew 
From mortal adoration or regard, 
Not then was Deity engulfed ; nor Man, 
12* 



138 THE EXCURSION. 

The rational creature, left, to feel the weight 

Of hia own reason, without sense or thought 

Of higher reason and a purer will. 

To benefit and bless, through mightier power:-— 

Whether the Persian — zealous to reject 

Altar and image, and the inclusive walls 

And roofs of temples built by human hands — 

To loftiest heights ascending, from their tops. 

With myrtle -wreathed tiara on his brow, 

Presented sacrifice to moon and stars, 

And to the winds and mother elements, 

And the whole circle of the heavens, for him 

A sensitive existence, and a God, 

With lifted hands invoked, and songs of praise : 

Or, less reluctantly to bonds of sense 

Yielding his soul, the Babylonian framed 

For influence undefined a personal shape ; 

And, from the plain, with toil immense, upreared 

Tower eight times planted on the top of tower, 

That Belus, nightly to his splendid couch 

Descending, there might rest ; upon that height 

Pure and sei-ene, diffused — to overlook 

Winding Euphrates, and the city vast 

Of his devoted worshippers, far-stretched, 

With grove and field and garden interspersed ; 

Their town, and foodful region for support 

Against the pressure of beleaguering war. 

Chaldean Shepherds, ranging trackless fields. 
Beneath the concave of unclouded skies 
Spread like a sea, in boundless solitude. 
Looked on the polar star, as on a guide 
And guardian of their course, that never closed 
His steadfast eye. The planetary Five 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 139 

With a submissive reverence they beheld ; 

Watclied, from tlie centre of their sleeping flocks 

Those radiant Mercuries, that seemed to move 

Carrying through ether, in perpetual round, 

Decrees and resolutions of the Gods ; 

And, by their aspects, signifying works 

Of dim futurity, to Man revealed. 

—The imaginative faculty was lord 

Of observations natural ; and, thus 

Led on, those shepherds made report of stars 

In set rotation passing to and fro. 

Between the orbs of our apparent sphere 

And its invisible counterpart, adorned 

With answering constellations, under earth, 

Removed from all approach of living sight 

But present to the dead ; who, so they deemed. 

Like those celestial messengers beheld 

All accidents, and judges were of all. 

The lively Grecian, in a land of hills, 
Rivers and fertile plains, and sounding shores,— 
Under a cope of sky more variable. 
Could find commodious place for every God, 
Promptly received, as prodigally brought, 
From the surrounding countries, at the choice 
Of all adventurers. With unrivalled skill. 
As nicest observation furnished hints 
For studious fancy, his quick hand bestowed 
On fluent operations a fixed shape ; 
Metal or stone, idolatrously served. 
And yet— triumphant o'er this pompous show 
Of art, this palpable array of sense, 
On every side encountered ; in despite 
Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets 



140 THE EXCURSION. 

By wandering Rhapsodists ; and in contempt 

Of doubt and bold denial hourly urged 

Amid the wrangling schools — a spirit hung, 

Beautiful region ! o'er thy towns and farms, 

Statues and temples, and memorial tombs ; 

And emanations were perceived ; and acts 

Of immortality, in Nature's course. 

Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt 

As bonds, on grave philosopher imposed 

And armed warrior ; and in every grove 

A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed, 

When piety more awful had relaxed. 

— -' Take, running river, take these locks of mine'-— 

Thus would the Votary say—* this severed hair, 

My vow fulfiUing, do I here present, 

Thankful for my beloved child's return. 

Thy banks, Cephisus, he again hath trod, 

Thy murmurs heard ; and drunk the crystal lymph 

With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip, 

And, all day long, moisten these flowery fields !' 

And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed 

Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose 

Of Life continuous. Being unimpaired ; 

That hath been, is, and where it was and is 

There shall endure, — existence unexposed 

To the blind walk of moral accident ; 

From diminution safe and weakening age ; 

While man grows old, and dwindles, and decays ; 

And countless generations of mankind 

Depart ; and leave no vestige where they trod. 

We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love ; 
And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, 
In dignity of being we ascend. 



DESPONDENCY COREBCTED. 141 

But what is error?" — " Answer lie who can!" 
The Sceptic somewhat haughtily exclaimed : 
" Love, Hope, and Admiiation — are they not 
Mad Fancy's favorite vassals ? Does not life 
Use tliem, full oft, as pioneers to ruin, 
Guides to destruction ? Is it v/ell to trust 
Imaoiiiation's liofht when reason fails, 
The unguarded taper where the guarded faints ? 
— Stoop from those heights, and soberly declare 
What error is : and, of our erroi-s, which 
Doth most debase the mind ; the genuine seats 
Of power, where are they ? Who shall regulate. 
With truth, the scale of intellectual rank !" 

" Methinks," persuasively the Sage replied, 
" That for this arduous office you possess 
Some rare advantages. Your early days 
A grateful recollection must supply 
Of much exalted good by Heaven vouchsafed 
To dignify the humblest state. — Your voice 
Hath, in my hearing, often testified 
That poor men's children, they, and they alone, 
By their condition taught, can understand 
The wisdom of the prayer that daily asks 
For daily bread. A consciousness is yours 
How feelingly rehgion may be learned 
In smoky cabins, from a mother's tongue — ' 
Heard, while the dwelling vibrates to the din 
Of the contiguous torrent, gathering strength 
At every moment — and, with strength, increase 
Of fury ; or, while snow is at the door. 
Assaulting and defending, and the wind, 
A sightless laborer, whistles at his work — 
Fearful : but resignation tempers fear, 



142 THE EXCURSION. 

And piety is sweet to infant minds. 

— The Shepherd-lad, that in the sunshine c'di ves 

On the green turf, a dial — to divide 

The silent hours ; and who to that report 

Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt. 

Throughout a long and lonely summer's day 

His round of pastoral duties is not left 

With less intelligence for moral things 

Of gravest import. Early he perceives, 

Within himself, a measure and a rule, 

Which, to the sun of truth he can apply. 

That shines for him, and shines for all mankind. 

Experience daily fixing his regards 

On nature's wants, he knows how few they are. 

And where they lie, how answered and appeased. 

This knowledge ample recompense affords 

For manifold privations ; he refers 

His notions to this standard ; on this rock 

Rests his desires ; and hence, in after life, 

Soul-strengthening patience, and sublime content. 

Imagination — not permitted here 

To waste her powers, as in the worldling's mind, 

On fickle pleasures, and superfluous cares, 

And trivial ostentation — is left free 

And puissant to range the solemn walks 

Of time and nature, girded by a zone 

That, while it binds, invigorates and supports. 

Acknowledge, then, that whether by the side 

Of his poor hut, or on the mountain top, 

Or in the cultured field, a Man so bred 

(Take what you will from him upon the score 

Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes 

For nobler purposes of mind : his heart 

Beats to the heroic song of ancient days ; 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 143 

His eye distinguishes, his soul creates. 

And those illusions, which excite the scorn 

Or move the pity of unthinking minds, 

Are the)?- not mainly outward ministers 

Of inward conscience ? with whose service charged 

They come and go, appear and disappear, 

Diverting evil purposes, remorse 

Awakening, chastening an intemperate grief. 

Or pride of heart abating ; and whene'er 

For less important ends those phantoms move. 

Who would forbid them, if their presence serve, 

On thinly-peopled mountains and wild heaths. 

Filling a space, else vacant, to exalt 

The forms of Nature, and enlarge her powei's? 

Once more to distant ages of the world 
Let us revert, and place before our thoughts 
The face which rural solitude might wear 
To the unenlightened swains of pagan Greece. 
— In that fair clime, the lonely herdsman, stretched 
On the soft grass through half a summer's day, 
With music lulled his indolent repose : 
And, in some fit of weariness, if he 
When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear 
A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds 
Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetched. 
Even from the blazing chariot of the sun, 
A beardless Youth, who touched a golden lute. 
And filled the illumined groves with ravishment. 
The nightly hunter, lifting a bright eye 
Up towards the crescent moon, with grateful hesai. 
Called on the lovely wanderer who bestoweu 
That timely light, to share his joyous sport : 
And hence, a beaming Goddess with her Nympb^ 



144 THE EXCURSION. 

Across the lawn and through the darksome grove 

Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes 

By echo multiplied from rock or cave, 

Swept in the storm of chase ; as moon and stars 

Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven, 

When winds are blowing strong. The traveller 

slaked 
His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked 
The Naiad. Sunbeams, upon distant hills 
Gliding apace, with shadows in their train. 
Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed 
Into fleet Oreads, sporting visibly. 
The Zephyrs fanning, as they passed, their wings, 
Lacked not, for love, fair objects whom they wooed 
With gentle whisper. Withered boughs grotesque, 
Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age. 
From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth 
In the low vale, or on steep mountain-side ; 
And, sometimes, intermixed with stirring horns 
Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard, — 
These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood 
Of gamesome Deities ; or Pan himself, 
The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring God !" 

The strain was aptly chosen : and I could mark 
Its kindly influence o'er the yielding brow 
Of our Companion, gradually diff"used ; 
While, listening, he had paced the noiseless turf, 
Like one whose untired ear a murmuring stream 
Detains ; but tempted now to interpose. 
He with a smile exclaimed : — 

" 'T is well you speak 
At a safe distance from our native land. 
And from the mansions where our youth was taught. 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 145 

The true descendants of those godly men 

Who swept from Scothmd, in a flame of zeal. 

Shrine, altar, image, and the massy piles 

That harbored them, — the souls retaining yet 

The churlish features of that after-i'ace 

Who fled to woods, caverns, and jutting rocks, 

In deadly scorn of superstitious rites, 

Or what their scruples construed to be such — 

How, think you, would they tolerate this scheme 

Of fine propensities, that tends, if urged 

Far as it might be urged, to sow afresh 

The weeds of Romish phantasy, in vain 

Uprooted ; would re-consecrate our wells 

To good Saint Fillan and to fair Saint Anne ; 

And from long banishment recall Saint Giles, 

To watch again with tutelary love 

Or stately Edinborough throned on crags ? 

A blessed restoration, to behold 

The patron, on the shoulders of his priests. 

Once more parading through her crowded streets 

Now simply guarded by the sober powers 

Of science, and philosophy, and sense !" 

This answer followed. — " You have turned my 
thoughts 
Upon our brave Progenitors, who rose 
Against idolatry with warlike mind. 
And shrunk from vain observances, to lurk 
In woods, and dwell under impending rocks 
Ill-sheltered, and oft wantingf fire and food : 
Why ? — for this very reason that they felt, 
And did acknowledge, wheresoe'er they moved, 
A spiritual presence, oft-times misconceived> 
But still a high dependence, a divine 
13 



146 THE EXCURSION. 

Bount}'^ and government, that filled their hearts 
With joy, and gratitude, and fear, and love ; 
And from their fervent lips drew hymns of praise. 
That through the desert rang. Tliough favored lesa 
Far less, than these, yet such, in their degree, 
Were those bewildered Pagans of old time. 
Beyond their own poor natures and above 
They looked ; were humbly thankful for the good 
W^hich the warm sun solicited, and earth 
Bestowed ; were gladsome, — and their moral sense 
They fortified with reverence for the Gods ; 
And they had hopes that overstepped the Grave, 

Now, shall our great Discoverers," he exclaimed. 

Raising his voice triumphantly, " obtain 

From sense and reason less than these obtained, 

Though far misled ? Shall men for whom our age 

Unbaffled powers of vision hath prepared, 

To explore the world without and world within. 

Be joyless as the bhnd? Ambitious spirits — 

Whom earth, at this late season, hath produced 

To regulate the moving spheres, and weigh 

The planets in the hollow of their hand ; 

And they who rather dive than soar, whose pains 

Have solved the elements, or analysed 

The thinking principle — shall they in fact 

Prove a degraded Race ! and what avails 

Renown, if their presumption make them such ? 

Oh ! there is laughter at their work in heaven ! 

Inquire of ancient Wisdom ; go, demand 

Of mighty Nature, if 'twas ever meant 

That we should pry far off yet be unraised ; 

That we should pore, and dwindle as we pore. 

Viewing all objects unremittingly 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 147 

In disconnexion dead and spiritless ; 
And still dividing, and dividing still, 
Break down all grandeur, still unsatisfied 
With the perverse attempt, while littleness 
May yet become more little ; waging thus 
An impious warfare with the very life 
Of our own souls 1 

And if indeed there be 
An all-pervading Spirit, upon whom 
Our dark foundations rest, could he design 
That this magnificent effect of power, 
The earth we tread, the sky that we behold 
By day, and all the pomp which night reveals ; 
That these — and that superior mystery 
Our vital frame, so fearfully devised. 
And the dread soul within it — should exist 
Only to be examined, pondered, searched, 
Probed, vexed, and criticised ? — Accuse me not 
Of aiTogance, unknown Wanderer as I am. 
If, having walked with Nature threescore years. 
And offered, far as frailty would allow. 
My heart a daily sacrifice to Truth, 
1 now affirm of Nature, and of Truth, 
Whom I have served, that their Divinitit 
Hevolts, oflFended at the ways of men 
Swayed by such motives, to such ends employed ; 
Philosophers, who, though the human soul 
Be of a, thousand faculties composed. 
And twice ten thousand interests, do yet prize 
This soul, and the transcendent universe, 
No more than as a miiror that reflects 
To proud Self-love her own intelligence ; 
That one, poor, finite object, in the abyss 
Of infinite Being, twinkling i^estlessly 1 



148 THEE XCURSION. 

l^OY higher place can be assigned to him 
And liis compeers — the laughing Sage of France- 
Crowned was he, if my memory do not err^, 
With laurel planted upon hoary hairs. 
In sign of conquest by his wit achieved 
And benefits his wisdom had conferred ; 
His stooping body tottered with wreaths of flowers 
Opprest, far less becoming ornaments 
Than Spring oft twines about a mouldering tree ', 
Yet so it pleased a fond, a vain, old Man, 
And a most frivolous people. Him I mean 
Who penned, to ridicule confiding faith, 
This sorry Legend ; which by chance we found 
Piled in a nook, through malice, as might seem, 
Among more innocent rubbish." — Speaking thus. 
With a brief notice when, and how, and where. 
We had espied the book, he drew it fortb ; 
And courteously, as if the act removed, 
At once, all traces from the good Man's heart 
Of unbenign aversion or contempt. 
Restored to its owner. " Gentle Friend," 
Herewith he grasped the Solitary's hand, 
" You have known lights and guides better tliaa 

these. 
Ah ! let not aught amiss within dispose 
A noble mind to practise on herself, 
And tempt opinion to support the wrongs 
Of passion : whatsoe'er be felt or feared. 
From higher judgment- seats make no appeal 
To lower ; can you question that the soul 
Inherits an allegiance, not by choice 
To be cast oflF, upon an oath proposed 
By each new upstart notion ? In the portis 
Of levity no refuge can be found. 



DESPONDENCY CnRRECfED, 119 

ISTo shelter, for a spirit in distress. 
He, who by wilful disesteem of life 
And proud insensibility to hope, 
Affronts the eye of Solitude, shall learfi 
That her mild nature can be terrible ; 
That neither she nor Silence lack the powef 
To aveYig-e their own insulted majesty. 

O blest seclusion I when the mind admits 
The law of duty ; and ca,n therefore move 
Through eaeh vicissitude of loss and gain, 
Linked in entire complacence with her choice ; 
When youth's presumptuousness is mellowed down» 
And manhood's vain anxiety disniissed ; 
When wisdom shows her seasonable fruit. 
Upon the boughs of sheltering leisure hung 
In sober plenty ; when the spirit stoops 
To drink with gratitude the crystal stream 
Of unreproved enjoyment ; and is pleased 
To muse, and be saluted by the air 
Of meek repentance, wafting wall-flower scents 
From out the crumbling ruins of fallen pride 
And chambers of transgression, now forlorn* 
O, calm contented days, and peaceful nights ! 
Who, when such good can be obtained, would strive 
To reconcile his manhood to a couch 
Soft, as may seem, but, under that disguise, 
Stuffed with the thorny substance of the past 
For fixed annoyance; and full oft beset 
With floating dreams, black and disconsolate, 
The vapory phantoms of futurity ? 

Within the soul a faculty abides. 
That with interpositions, which would hide 
13* 



150 THE EXCURSION. 

And darten, so can deal that tbey become 
Contingencies of pomp ; and serve to exalfc 
Her native brightness. As the ample moon. 
In the deep stillness of a summer even 
Rising behind a thick and lofty grove, 
Burns, like an unconsuraing fire of light, 
In the green trees ; and, kindling on all sides 
Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil 
Into a substance glorious as her own. 
Yea, w^ith her own incorporated, by power 
Capacious and serene. Like power abides 
In man's celestial spirit ; virtue thus 
Sets forth and magnifies herself ; thus feeds 
A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire. 
From the encumbrances of mortal life. 
From error, disappointment — nay, from guilt ; 
And sometimes, so relenting justice wills, 
From palpable oppressions of despair." 

The Solitary by these words was touched 
With manifest emotion, and exclaimed : 
•' But how begin ? and whence ? — ' The Mind is 

free — 
Eesolve,' the haughty Moralist would say, 
' This single act is all that we demand,' 
Alas ! such wisdom bids a creature fly 
Whose very sorrow is, that time hath shorn 
His natural wings ! — To friendship let him turn 
For succor ; but perhaps he sits alone 
On stormy waters, tossed in a little boat 
That holds but him, and can contain no more ! 
Religion tells of amity sublime 
Which no condition can preclude ; of One 
Who sees all suffering, comprehends all wants, 



DESPONPENCY CORRECTED. 151 

All wealiness fathoms, can supply all needs : 

But is that bounty absolute ? — His gifts, 

Are they not still, in some degree, rewards 

For acts of service ? Can his love extend 

To hearts that own him not ? Will showers of grace. 

When in the sky no promise may be seen, 

Fall to refresh a parched and withered land ? 

Or shall the groaning Spirit cast her load 

At the Redeemer's feet ?" 

In rueful tone, 
With some impatience in his mien he spake : 
Back to my mind rushed all that had been urged 
To calm the Sufferer when his story closed ; 
I looked for counsel as unbending now ; 
But a discriminating sympathy 
Stooped to this apt reply : — 

" As men from men 
Do, in the constitution of their souls, 
Differ, by mystery not to be explained ; 
And as we fall by various ways, and sink 
One deeper than another, self-condemned. 
Through manifold degrees of guilt and shame ; 
So manifold and various are the ways 
Of restoration, fashioned to the steps 
Of all infirmity, and tending all 
To the same point, attainable by all- 
Peace in ourselves, and union with our God, 
For you, assuredly, a hopeful road 
Lies open : we have heard from you a voice 
At every moment softened in its course 
By tenderness of heart ; have seen your eye. 
Even like an altar lit by fire from heaven, 
Kindle before us, — Your discourse this day. 
That, like the fabled Lethe, wished to flow. 



152 tHE EXCURSION. 

In creeping sadness, through oblivious shades 
Of death and night, has caught at every turn 
The colors of the sun. Access for you 
Is yet preserved to principles of truth, 
Which the Imaginative Will upholds 
In seats of wisdom, not to be approached 
By the inferior Faculty that moulds, 
With her minute and speculative pains 
Opinion, ever changing ! 

I have seen 
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell ; 
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 
Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon 
Brightened with joy ; for from within were heard 
Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed 
Mysterious union with its native sea. 
Even such a shell the universe itself 
Is to the ear of Faith ; and there are times, 
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 
Authentic tiding of invisible things ; 
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power ; 
And central peace, subsisting at the heart 
Of endless agitation. Here you stand, 
Adore and worship, when you know it not ; 
Pious beyond the intention of your thought ; 
Devout above the meaning of your will. 
— Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to feel. 
The estate of man would be indeed forlorn 
If false conclusions of the reasoning power 
Made the eye blind, and closed the passages 
Through which the ear converses with the heart. 
Has not the soul, "the being of your Ufe, 



DESPONDENCY COKRECTED. 153 

Received a shock of awful consciousness. 

In some calm season, when these lofty rocks 

At night's approach bring down the unclouded sky. 

To rest upon their circumambient walls ; 

A temple framing of dimensk»ns vast, 

And yet not too enormous for the sound 

Of human anthems, — choral song, or burst 

Sublime of instrumental harmony, 

To glorify the Eternal ! What if these 

Did never break the stillness that prevails 

Here, — if the solemn nightingale be mute. 

And the soft woodlark here did never chant 

Her vespers, — Nature fails not to provide 

Impulse and utterance. The whispering air 

Sends inspirations from the shadowy heights, 

And blind recesses of the caverned rocks ; 

The little rills, and waters numberless, 

Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes 

With the loud streams : and often, at the hour 

When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard. 

Within the circuit of this fabric huge. 

One voice — the solitary raven, flying 

Athwart the concave of the dark blue dome, 

Unseen, perchance above all power of sight — 

An iron knell ! with echoes from afar 

Faint — and still fainter — as the cry, with which 

The wanderer accompanies her flight 

Through the calm region, fades upon the ear 

Diminishing by distance till it seemed 

To expire ; yet from the abyss is caught again. 

And yet again recovered ! 

But descending 
From these imaginative heights, that yield 
Far-stretching views into eternity. 



154 THE EXCURSION. 

Acknowledge that to Nature's humbler power 

Your cherished suUenness is forced to bend 

Even here, where her amenities are sown 

With sparing hand. Then trust yourself abroad 

To range her blooming bowers, and spacious fields, 

Where on the labors of the happy throng 

She smiles, including in her wide embrace 

City, and town, and tower, — and sea with ships 

Sprinkled ; — be our Companion while we track 

Her rivers populous with gliding life ; 

While, free as air, o'er printless sands we march, 

Or pierce the gloom of her majestic woods ; 

Roaming, or resting under grateful shade 

In peace and meditative cheerfulness ; 

Where living things, and things inanimate, 

Do speak, at Heaven's command, to eye and ear, 

And speak to social reason's inner sense, 

With inarticulate language. 

For, the Man — 
Who, in this spirit, communes with the Forms 
Of nature, who with understanding heart 
Both knows and loves such objects as excite 
No morbid passions, no disquietude, 
No venoceance, and no hatred — needs must feel 
The joy of that pure principle of love 
So deeply, that, unsatisfied with aught 
Less pure and exquisite, he cannot choose 
But seek for objects of a kindred love 
In fellow-natures and a kindred joy. 
Accordingly he by degrees perceives 
His feelings of aversion softened down ; 
A holy tenderness pervades his frame. 
His sanity of reason not impaired. 
Say rather, all his thoughts now flowing clear. 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 155 

From a clear fountain flowing, he looks round 

And seeks for good ; and finds the good he seeks : 

Until abhorrence and contempt are things 

He only knows by name ; and, if he hear, 

From other mouths, the language which they speak, 

He is compassionate ; and has no thought. 

No feeling which can overcome his love. 

And further ! by contemplating these Forms 

In the relations which they bear to man. 

He shall discern, how, through the various means 

Which silently they yield, are multiplied 

The spiritual presences of absent things. 

Trust me, that for the instructed, time Avill come 

When they shall meet no object but may teach 

Some acceptable lesson to their minds 

Of human suffering or of human joy. 

So shall they learn, while all things speak of man, 

Their duties from all forms ; and general laws. 

And local accidents, shall tend alike 

To rouse, to urge ; and, with the will, confer 

The ability to spread the blessings wide 

Of true philanthropy. The light of love 

Not failing, perseverance from their steps 

Departing not, for them shall be confirmed 

The glorious habit by which sense is made 

Subservient still to moral purposes, 

Auxiliar to divine. That change shall clothe 

The naked spirit, ceasing to deplore 

The burthen of existence. Science then 

Shall be a precious visitant ; and then. 

And only then, be worthy of her name : 

For then her heart shall kindle ; her dull eye. 

Dull and inanimate, no more shall hang 



156 THBEXCUfiSION. 

Chained to its object in brute slavery ; 
But taught with patient interest to watch 
The processes of things, and serve the cause 
Of order and distinctness, not for this 
Shall it forget that its most noblest use. 
Its most illustrious province, must be found 
In furnishing clear guidance, a support 
Not treacherous, to the mind's excursive power, 
— So build we up the Being that we are ; 
Thus deeply drinking-in the soul of things. 
We shall be wise perforce ; and, while inspired 
By choice, and conscious that the Will is free, 
Shall move unswerving, even as if impelled 
By strict necessity, along the path 
Of order and of good. Whate'er we see, 
Or feel, shall tend to quicken and refine ; 
Shall fix, in calmer seats of moral strength. 
Earthly desires ; and raise, to loftier heights 
Of divine love, our intellectual soul." 

Here closed the Sage that eloquent harangue. 
Poured forth with fervor in continuous stream. 
Such as, remote, 'mid savage wilderness 
An Indian Chief discharges from his breast 
Into the hearing of assembled tribes. 
In open circle seated round, and hushed 
As the unbreathing air, when not a leaf 
Stirs in the mighty woods. — So did he speak: 
The words he uttered shall not pass away 
Dispersed, like music, that the wind takes up 
By snatches, and lets fall, to be forgotten ; 
No — they sank into me, the bounteous gift 
Of one whom time and nature had made wise, 
Gracing his doctrine with authority 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 157 

Which hostile spirits silently allow ; 
Of one accustomed to desires that feed 
On fruitage gathered from the tree of life ; 
To hopes on knowledge and experience built ; 
Of one in whom persuasion and belief 
Had ripened into faith, and faith become 
A passionate intuition ; whence the Soul, 
Though bound to earth by ties of pity and love. 
From all injurious servitude was free. 

The Sun, before his place of rest were reached, 
Had yet to travel far, but unto us, 
To us who stood low in that hollow dell. 
He had become invisible, — a pomp 
Leaving behind of yellow radiance spread 
Over the mountain sides, in contrast bold 
With ample shadows, seemingly, no less 
Than those resplendent lights, his rich bequest ; 
A dispensation of his evening power. 
— Ad own the path that from the glen had led 
The funeral train, the Shepherd and his Mate 
Were seen descending : — forth to greet them ran 
Our little Page : the rustic pair approach ; 
And in the Matron's countenance may be read 
Plain indication that the words, which told 
How that neglected Pensioner was sent 
Before his time into a quiet grave. 
Had done to her humanity no wrong : 
But we are kindly welcomed — promptly served 
With ostentatious zeal. — Along the floor 
Of the small Cottage in the lonely Dell 
A grateful couch was spread for our repose ; 
Where, in the guise of mountainee's, we lay, 
Stretched upon fragrant heath, an J lulled by sound 
14 



158 THE EXCURSION. 

Of far-off ton-ents, charttiing- the still nighty 
And, to tired limbs and over-busy thoughts. 
Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness. 



HE EXCUESIO 



BOOK FIFTH. 



HE PANTOS 



f HE I'ASINOE. 



ARGUMENT* 



Stecwell to the Vallcy-^E€flectioKS,— A large and populoits Vale de» 
scribed. — The Pastor's Dwelling, and some account of him. — Church 
and Monuments — The Solitaiy musing, and where. — Ronsed. — In the 
Churchyard, the Solitary communiGatos the thoughts which had 
recently passed through his mind. — Lofty tone of the Wanderer's 
<liscourse of yesterday adverted to. — Rite of Baptism, and the profes* 
sions accompanying it, contrasted v/ith th« real state of human life. — 
Apology for the Rite. — Inconsistency of the best men, — Acliiiowledg- 
ment that practice falls far below the injunctions of duty as existing 
in the mind. — ti^eneial complaint of a falling oiT in the value of life 
after the time of youth. — Outward appeai'ances of content and happi- 
ness In degree illusive. — Pastor appi'uaches. — Appeal made to him. 
— His answer. — Wanderej- in sympathy with him. — Suggestion that 
the least ambitious inquirers may be most free from error.- The 
Pastor is d€:sired to give some portraits of the living or dead from hia 
own observation of life among these Mountains — and for what pui'>- 
pose.— Pastor consents. — Mountain cottage.— Excellent quality of its 
Inhabitants. — Solitary expresses his pleasure ; but denies the praise 
of virtue to worth of this kind. — Feelings of the Priest before he 
enters upon his account of persons interred in the Churchyard. — 
Graves of unbaptized Infants.^Funeral and sepulchral observances, 
whence. — Ecclesiastical establishments, whence derived, — Profession 
of belief in the doctrine of Immortality, 

*' "PAREWELL, deep Valley, with thy one rude 

House, 
And its small lot of life-supporting fields. 
And guardian rocks ! — Farewell, attractive seat ! 
To the still influx of the morning light 
Open, and day's pure cheerfulness, but veiled 
From human observation, as if yet 
14* 161 



162 THE EXCURSION. 

Primeval forests wrapped thee round with dark 
Impenetrable shade ; once more farewell, 
Majestic circuit, beautiful abyss. 
By Nature destined from the birth of things 
For quietness profound !" 

Upon the side 
Of that brown ridge, sole outlet of the vale 
Which foot of boldest stranger would attempt, 
Lingering behind my comrades, thus I breathed 
A parting tribute to a spot that seemed 
Like the fixed centre of a troubled world. 
Again I halted with reverted eyes ; 
The chain that would not slacken, was at length 
Snapt, — and, pursuing leisurely my way. 
How vain, thought I, is it by change of place 
To seek that comfort which the mind denies ; 
Yet trial and temptation oft are shunned 
Wisely ; and by such tenure do we hold. 
Frail life's possessions, that even they whose fate 
Yields no peculiar reason of complaint 
Might, by the promise that is here, be won 
To steal from active duties, and embrace 
Obscurity, and undisturbed repose. 
— Knowledge, methinks, in these disordered times, 
Should be allowed a privilege to have 
Her anchorites, like piety of old ; 
Men, who, from faction sacred, and unstained 
By war, might, if so minded, turn aside 
Uncensured, and subsist, a scattered few 
Living to Grod and nature, and content 
With that communion. Consecrated be 
The spots where such abide ! But happier still 
The Man, whom, furthermore, a hope attends 




THE PASTOR. 

That meditation and research may guide 

His privacy to principles and powers 

Discovered or invented ; or set forth, 

Through his acquaintance with the ways of truth, 

In lucid order ; so that when his course 

Is run, some faithful eulogist may say, 

He sought not praise, and praise did overlook 

His unobtrusive merit ; but his life. 

Sweet to himself, was exercised in good 

That shall survive his name and memory. 

Acknowledgments of gratitude sincere 
Accompanied these musings ; fervent thanks 
For my own peaceful lot and happy choice ; 
A choice that from the passions of the world 
Withdrew, and fixed me in a still retreat ; 
Sheltered, but not to social duties lost, 
Secluded, but not buried ; and with song 
Cheering my days, and with indtistrious thought j 
With the ever- welcome company of books ; 
With virtuous friendship's soul-sustaining aid. 
And with the blessings of domestic love. 

Thus occupied in mind I paced along, 
Following the rugged road, by sledge or wheel 
Worn in the moorland, till I overtook 
My two Associates, in the morning sunshine 
Halting together on a rocky knoll, 
Whence the bare road descended rapidly 
To the green meadows of another vale. 

Here did our pensive Host put forth his hand 
In sign of farewell. " Nay," the old Man said^ 



164 THE EXCURSION. 

" The fragrant air its coolness still retains ; 
The herds and flocks are yet abroad to crop 
The dewy grass ; you cannot leave us now, 
We must not part at this inviting hour." 
He yielded, though reluctant ; for his mind 
Instinctively disposed him to retire 
To his own covert ; as a billow, heaved 
Upon the beach, rolls back into the sea. 
— So we descend : and winding round a rock 
Attain a point that showed the valley — stretched 
In length before us ; and, not distant far, 
Upon a rising ground a grey church-tower, 
Whose battlements were screened by tufted trees. 
And towards a crystal Mere, that lay beyond 
Among steep hills and woods embosomed, flowed 
A copious stream with boldly-winding course ; 
Here traceable, there hidden — there again 
To sight restored, and glittering in the sun. 
On the stream's bank, and every where, appeared 
Fair dwellings, single, or in social knots ; 
Some scattered o'er the level, others perched 
On the hill sides, a cheerful quiet scene, 
Now in its morning purity arrayed. 

" As mid some happy valley of the Alps,'* 
Said I, " once happy, ere tyrannic power, 
Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss, 
Destroyed their unoffending commonwealth, 
A popular equality reigns here. 
Save for yon stately House beneath whose roof 
A rural lord might dwell." — " No feudal pomp. 
Or power," replied the Wanderer, " to that House 



THE PASTOR. 165 

Belongs, but there in his allotted Home 
Abides, from year to year, a genuine Priest, 
The shepherd of his flock ; or, as a king 
Is styled, when most affectionately praised, 
The father of his people. Such is he ; 
And rich and poor, and young and old, rejoico 
Under his spiritual sway. He hath vouchsafed 
To me some portion of a kind regard ; 
And something also of his inner mind 
Hath he imparted — but I speak of him 
As he is known to all. 

The calm delights 
Of imambitious piety he chose. 
And learning's solid dignity ; though born 
Of knightly race, nor wanting powerful friends. 
Hither, in prime of manhood, he withdrew 
From academic bowers. He loved the spot^ — 
Who does not love his native soil ? — he prized' 
The ancient rural character, composed 
Of simple manners, feelings unsupprest 
And undisguised, and strong and serious thought ; 
A character reflected in himself, 
With such embellishments as well beseems 
His rank and sacred function. This deep vale 
Winds far in reaches hidden from our sight. 
And one a turreted manorial hall 
Adorns, in which the good Man's ancestors 
Have dwelt through ages — Patrons of this Cure. 
To them, and to his own judicious pains. 
The Vicar's dwelling, and the whole domain. 
Owes that presiding aspect which might well 
Attract your notice ; statelier than could else 



166 THE EXCURSION. 

Have been bestowed, througb course of common 

chance. 
On an unwealthy mountain Benefice." 

This said, oft pausing, we pursued our way ; 
Nor reached the village- churchyard till the sun 
Travelling at steadier pace than ours, had risen 
Above the summits of the highest hills, 
And round our path darted oppressive beams. 

As chanced, the portals of the sacred Pile 
Stood open ; and we entered. On my frame. 
At such transition from the fervid air, 
A grateful coolness fell, that seemed to strike 
The heart, in concert with that temperate awe 
And natural reverence which the place inspired. 
Not raised in nice proportions was the pile, 
But large and massy ; for duration built ; 
With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld 
By naked rafters intricately crossed. 
Like leafless underboughs, in some thick wood 
All withered by the depth of shade above. 
Admonitory texts inscribed the walls, 
Each, in its ornamental scroll, enclosed ; 
Each also crowned with winged heads — a pair 
Of rudely-painted Cherubim. The floor 
Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise. 
Was occupied by oaken benches ranged 
In seemly rows ; the chancel only showed 
Some vain distinctions, marks of earthly state 
By immemorial privilege allowed ; 
Though with the Encincture's special sanctity 
But ill according. An heraldic shield. 



THE PASTOR. 167 

Varying its tincture witli the changeful light, 

Imbued the altar- wiadow ; fixed aloft 

A faded hatchment hung, and one by time 

Yet undiscolored. A capacious pew 

Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined ; 

And marble monuments were here displayed 

Thronging the walls ; and on the floor beneath 

Sepulchral stones appeared, with emblems graven 

And foot- worn epitaphs, and some with small 

And shining effigies of brass inlaid. 

The tribute by these various records claimed, 
Duly we paid, each after each, and read 
The ordinary chror^le of birth, 
Office, alliance, and promotion — -all 
Ending in dust ; of upright magistrates, 
Grave doctors strenuous for the mother-church, 
And uncorrupted senators, alike 
To king and people true. A brazen plate, 
Not easily deciphered, told of one 
Whose course of earthly honor was begun 
In quality of page among the train 
Of the eighth Henry, when he crossed the seas 
His royal state to show, and prove his strength 
In tournament, upon the fields of France. 
Another tablet registered the death. 
And praised the gallant bearing, of a Knight 
Tried in the sea-fights of the second Charles. 
Near this brave Knight his Father lay entombed ; 
And, to the silent language giving voice, 
I read, — how in his manhood's earlier day 
He, mid the afflictions of intestme war 
And rightful government subverted, found 



i:68 THE EXCURSION. 

One only solace — that he had espoused 

A virtuous Lady tenderly beloved 

For her benign perfections ; and yet more 

Endeared to him, for this, that, in her state 

Of wedlock richly crowned with Heaven's regard. 

She with a numerous issue filled his house. 

Who throve, like plants, uninjured by the storm 

That laid their country waste. No need to speak 

Of less particular notices assigned 

To Youth or Maiden gone before their time, 

And Matrons and unwedded Sisters old ; 

Whose charity and goodness were rehearsed 

In modest panegyric. 

" Tl^se dim lines, 
What would they tell ?" said I, — but, from the task 
Of puzzling out that faded narrative, 
With whisper soft my venerable Friend 
Called me ; and, looking down the darksome ai^le, 
I saw the Tenant of the lonely vale f. 

Standing apart ; with curved arm reclined 
On the baptismal font ; his pallid face 
Upturned, as if his mind were rapt, or lost 
In some abstraction ; — gracefully he stood, 
The semblance bearing of a sculptured form 
That leans upon a monumental urn 
In peace, from morn to night, from year to year. 

Him from that posture did the Sexton rouse 
Who entered, humming carelessly a tune, 
Continuation haply of the notes 
That had beguiled the work from which he came. 
With spade and mattock o'er his shoulder hung ; 
To be deposited, for future need. 



THE PASTOR. 169 

In their appointed place. The pale Recluse 
Withdrew; and straight we followed, — to a spot 
Where sun and shade were intermixed ; for there 
A broad oak, stretching forth its leafy arms 
From an adjoining pasture, overhung 
Small space of that green churchyard with a light 
And pleasant awning. On the moss-grown wall 
My ancient Friend and I together took 
Our seats ; and thus the Solitary spake. 
Standing before us : — 

" Did you note the mien 
Of that self-solaced, easy-hearted churl. 
Death's hireling, who scoops out his neighbor's grave. 
Or wraps an old acquaintance up in clay, 
All unconcerned as he would bind a sheaf, 
Or plant a tree. And did you hear his voice ? 
I was abruptly summoned by the soimd 
From some affecting images and thoughts, 
Which then were silent ; but crave utterance now. 

Much," he continued, with dejected look, 
" Much, yesterday, was said in glowing phrase 
Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes 
For future states of being ; and the wings 
Of speculation, joyfully outspread, 
Hovered above our destiny on earth : 
But stop, and place the prospect of the soul 
In sober contrast with reality. 
And man's substantial life. If this mute earth 
Of what it holds could speak, and every grave 
Were as a volume, shut, yet capable 
Of yielding its contents to eye and ear, 
We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and shame, 
15 



170 THE EXCURSION. 

To see disclosed, by such dread proof,, tow ill 
That which is done accords with what is known 
To reason, and by conscience is enjoined ; 
How idly, how perversely, life's whole coiirse. 
To this conclusion, deviates from the line, 
Or of the end stops short, pfopt^ed to all 
At her aspiring oulset. 

Mark the babe 
Not long accustomed to this breathing world ; 
One that hath barely learned to shape a smilej, 
Though yet irrational of soul, to grasp 
With tiny finger — to let fall a tear ; 
And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves. 
To stretch his limbs, bemocking, as might seeni;, 
The outward functions of intelligent man ; 
A grave proficient in amusive feats 
Of puppetry, that from the lap declare 
His expectations, and announce his claims 
To that inheritance which millions rue 
That they were ever born to ! In due time 
A day of solemn ceremonial comes ; 
When they, for this Minor hold in trust 
Rights that transcend the loftiest heritage 
Of mere humanity, present their Charge, 
For this occasion daintily adorned. 
At the baptismal font. And when the pure 
And consecrating element hath cleansed 
The original stain, the child is there received 
Into the second ark, Christ's church, with trust 
That he, from wrath redeemed, therein shall float 
Over the billows of this troublesome world 
To the fair land of everlasting life. 
Corrupt afi'ections, covetous desires. 



THE PAST'OE. 171 

Are all reBOumeed ; higli as the thouglit of maa 

'Can carry virtoe, vii'tue is professed ; 

A dedication made, a pronaise given 

For due provision to control and guide. 

And unremitting progress to ensure 

In holiness and trutlu" 

" You cannot blame,^* 
Here interposing fervently I said, 
^' Rites which attest that Man by nature lies 
Bedded for good and evil in a gulf 
Fearfully low ; nor will your judgment soom 
Those services, whereby attempt is made 
To lift the creature toward that eminence 
On which, now fallen, erewhile in majestj 
He stood ; or if not so, whose top serene 
At least he feels 'tis given him to descry; 
Not without aspirations, evermore 
Ketuming, and injunctions from within 
Doubt to cast off and weariness ; in trast 
That what the Soul perceives, if glory lost. 
May be, through pains and persevering hope 
Recovei'ed; or, if hitherto unknown, 
Lies witiiin reach, and one day shall be gained.^ 

■" I blame them not," he calmly answered — " no ; 
The outward ritual and established forms 
With which communities of men invest 
These inward feelings, and the aspiring vows 
To which the lips give public utterance 
Are both a natural process ; and fey me 
Shall pass unoensured ; though the issue prove. 
Bringing from age to age its own reproach. 
Incongruous^ impotent, and bhuik. — But, oh ! 



172 THE EXCURSION. 

If to be weak is to be Avretched — miserable. 
As the lost Angel by a human voice 
Hath mournfully pronounced, then, in my mind. 
Far better not to move at all than move 
By impulse sent from such illusive power, — 
That finds and cannot fasten down ; that grasps 
And is rejoiced, and loses while it grasps ; 
That tempts, emboldens — for a time sustains. 
And then betrays ; accuses and inflicts 
Remorseless punishment ; and so retreads 
The inevitable circle : better far 
Than this, to graze the herb in thoughtless peace. 
By foresight or remembrance, undisturbed ! 

Philosophy! and thou more vaunted name 
Religion ! with thy statelier retinue. 
Faith, Hope, and Charity — from the visible world 
Choose for your emblems whatsoe'er you find 
Of safest guidance or of firmest trust — 
The torch, the star, the anchor ; nor except 
The cross itself, at whose unconscious feet 
The generations of mankind have knelt 
Ruefully seized, and shedding bitter tears, 
And through that conflict seeking rest — of you. 
High-titled Powers, am I constrained to ask. 
Here standing, with the unvoyageable sky 
In faint reflection of infinitude 
Stretched overhead, and at my pensive feet 
A subterraneous laagazine of bones. 
In whose dark vaults my own shall soon be laid, 
Where are your triumphs ? your dominion where ? 
And in what age admitted and confirmed ? 
— ISot for a happy land do I inquire. 






THE PASTOR. ITS 

Island ■or grove, that hides a blessed few 

Who, with obedience willing and sincci-es, 

To your serene authoriti-es conform ; 

But whom, I ask, of individual Souls, 

Have ye withdrawn from passion's -crooked ways, 

Inspired, aad thoroughly fortified ?— If the heart; 

Could be inspected to its inmost folds 

By sight undazzled with the glare of praise, 

Who shall be named — -in th« resplendent line 

Of sages, martyrs, confessors— the man 

Whom the best might of faith, wherever fix'd,, 

For one day's little compass, has preserv'd 

From painful and discreditable shocks 

Of contradiction, from some vagu^ desir^e 

Culpably cherished, or corrupt relapse 

To some unsanctioned fear ?" 

'" If this be so, 
And Man," said I, " be in his noblest shape 
Thus pitiably infirm : th'en, he who made, 
And who shall judge the creature, will forgive. 
— Yet, in its general tenor, your complaint 
Is all too true ; and surely not misplaced : 
For, from this pr€gna,nt spot of ground, such 

thoughts 
Ris6 to the notice of a serious mind 
By natural exhalation. With the dead 
In their repose, the living in their mirth, 
Who can reflect, unmoved, upon the round 
Of smooth and solemnized complacencies, 
By wh^h, on Christian lands, from age to age 
Profession mocks performance. Earth is sick. 
And Heaven is weary, of the hollow words 
Wliich States and Kingdoms utter when they talk 
15* 



174 THE EXCURSION. 

Of truth and justice. Turn to private life 

And social neighborhood ; look we to ourselves ; 

A light of duty shines on every day 

For all ; and yet how few are warmed or cheered ! 

How few who mingle with their fellow-men 

And still remain self-governed, and apart, 

Like this our honored Friend ; and thence acquire 

Right to expect his vigorous decline, 

That promises to the end a blest old age !" 

" Yet," with a smile of triumph thus exclaimed 
The Solitary, " in the life of man. 
If to the poetry of common speech 
Faith may be given, we see as in a glass 
A true reflection of the circling year, 
With all its seasons. Grant that Spring is there. 
In spite of many a rough untoward blast. 
Hopeful and promising with buds and flowers ; 
Yet where is glowing Summer's long rich day. 
That ought to follow faithfully expressed ? 
And mellow Autumn, charged with bounteous fruit, 
"Where is she imaged ? in what favored clime 
Her lavish pomp, and ripe magnificence ? 
— Yet, while the better part is missed, the worse 
In man's autumnal season is set forth 
With a resemblance not to be denied, 
And that contents him ; bowers that hear no more 
The voice of gladness, less and less supply 
Of outward sunshine and internal warmth ; 
And, with this change, sharp air and falling leaves, 
Foretellmg aged Winter's desolate sway. 



THE PASTOR. 175 

How gay the habitations that bedeck 
This fertile valley ! Not a house but seems 
To give assurance of content within; 
Embosomed happiness, and placid love ; 
As if the sunshine of the day were met 
With answering brightness in the hearts of all 
Who walk this favored ground. But chance-regards, 
And notice forced upon incurious ears ; 
These, if these only, acting in despite 
Of the encomiums by my Friend pronounced 
On humble life, forbid the judging mind 
To trust the smiling aspect of this fair 
And noiseless commonwealth. The simple race 
Of mountaineers (by Nature's self removed 
From foul temptations, and by constant care 
Of a good shepherd tended as themselves 
Do tend their flocks) partake man's general lot 
With little mitigation. They escape. 
Perchance, the heavier woes of guilt ; feel not 
The tedium of fantastic idleness : 
Yet life, as with the multitude, with them 
Is fashioned like an ill-constructed tale ; 
That on the outset wastes its gay desires. 
Its fair adventures, its enlivening hopes, 
And pleasant interests — for the sequel leaving 
Old things repeated with diminished grace ; 
And all the labored novelties at best 
Imperfect substitutes, whose use and power 
Evince the want and weakness whence they spring." 

While in this serious mood we held discourse. 
The reverend Pastor toward the church-yard gate 
Approached ; and, with a mild, respectful air 






P6 THE EXCURSION. 

Of native cordiality, our Friend 

Advanced to greet him. With a gracious raiett 

Was he received, and mutual joy prevailed. 

Awhile they stood in conference, and I guesa 

That he, who now upon the mossy wall 

Sate by my side, had vanished, if a wish 

Could have transferred him to the flying clouds, 

Or the least penetrable hiding-place 

In his own valley's rocky guardianship. 

— For me, I looked upon the pair, well pleased : 

Nature had framed them both, and both were marked 

By circumstance, with intermixture fine 

Of contrast and resemblance. To an oak 

Hardy and grand, a weather-beaten oak. 

Fresh in the strength and majesty of age. 

One might be likened : flourishing appeared. 

Though somewhat past the fulness of his prime, 

The other — like a stately sycamore, 

That spreads, in gentle pomp, its honeyed shade. 

A general greeting was exchanged ; and soon 
The Pastor learned that his approach had given 
A welcome interruption to discourse 
Grave, and in truth too often sad. — " Is Man 
A child of hope ? Do generations press 
On generations, without progress made? 
Halts the individual, ere his hairs be grey. 
Perforce ? Are we a creature in whom good 
Preponderates, or evil ? Doth the will 
Acknowledge reason's law ? A living power 
Is virtue, or no better than a name. 
Fleeting as health or beauty, and unsound ? 
So that the only substance which remains, 



i. ' , ' . ! j,i';,4 i ..j'., ' .'.ui.';'. ' ....3Ju'-..g 



THE PASTOR. 177 

(For thus the tenor of complaint hath run) 

Among so many shadows, are the pains 

And penalties of miserable life, 

Doomed to decay, and then expire in dust ! 

— Our cogitations this way have been drawn, 

These are the points," the Wanderer said, " on which 

Our inquest turns. — Accord, good Sir ! the light 

Of your experience to dispel this gloom : 

By your persuasive wisdom shall the heart 

That frets, or languishes, be stilled and cheered." 

"Our nature," said the Priest, in mild reply, 
" Angels may weigh and fathom : they perceive 
With undistempered and unclouded spirit. 
The object as it is ; but, for ourselves. 
That speculative height we may not reach. 
The good and evil are our own ; and we 
Are that which we would contemplate from far. 
Knowledge, for us, is difficult to gain — 
Is difficult to gain, and hard to keep — 
As virtue's self ; like virtue is beset 
With snares ; tried, tempted, subject to decay. 
Love, admiration, fear, desire, and hate. 
Blind were we without these : through these alone 
Are capable to notice or discern 
Or to record ; we judge, but cannot be 
Indifferent judges. 'Spite of proudest boast, 
Reason, best reason, is to imperfect man 
An effort only, and a noble aim ; 
A crown, an attribute of sovereign power. 
Still to be courted — ^never to be won. 
— Look forth, or each man dive into himself; 
What sees he but a creature too perturbed ; 



178 THE EXCURSION. 

That is transported to excess ; that yearns, 
Regrets, or trembles, wrongly, or too much ; 
Hopes rashly, in disgust as rash recoils ; 
Battens on spleen, or moulders in despair ? 
Thus comprehension fails, and truth is missed ; 
Thus darkness and delusion round our path 
Spread, from disease, whose subtle injury lurks 
Within the very faculty of sight. 

Yet for the general purposes of faith 
In Providence, for solace and support, 
We may not doubt that who can best subject 
The will to reason's law, can strictliest live 
And act in that obedience, he shall gain 
The clearest apprehension of those truths, 
Which unassisted reason's utmost power 
Is too infirm to reach. But, waiving this. 
And our regards confining within bounds 
Of less exalted consciousness, through which 
The very multitude are free to range. 
We safely may affirm that human life 
Is either fair and tempting, a soft scene 
Grateful to sight, refreshing to the soul, 
Or a forbidden tract of cheerless view ; 
Even as the same is looked at, or approached. 
Thus, when in changeful April fields are white 
With new-fallen snow, if from the sullen north 
Your walk conduct you hither, ere the sun 
Hath gained his noontide height, this churchyard, 

filled 
With mounds transversely lying side by side 
From east to west, before you will appear 
An unillumined, blank, and dreary, plain, 



THE PASTOR. 179 

With more than -wintry cheerlessriess and gloom 
Saddening the heart. Go forward, and look back; 
Look, from the quarter whence the lord of light. 
Of life, of love, and gladness doth dispense 
His beams ; which, unexcluded in their fall. 
Upon the southern side of every grave 
Have gently exercised a melting power ; 
Then will a vernal prospect greet your eye. 
All fresh and beautiful, and green and bright. 
Hopeful and cheerful : — vanished is the pall 
That overspread and chilled the sacred turf. 
Vanished or hidden ; and the whole domain, 
To some, too lightly minded, might appear 
A meadow carpet for the dancing hours. 
— This contrast, not unsuitable to life, 
Is to that other state more apposite. 
Death and its two-fold aspect ! wintry — one, 
Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out; 
The other, which the ray divine hath touched, 
Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring." 

" We see, then, as we feel," the Wanderer tlitis 
With a complacent animation spake, 
" And in your judgment. Sir ! the mind's repose 
On evidence is not to be ensured 
By act of naked reason. Moral truth 
Is no mechanic structure, built by rule ; 
And which, once built retains a stedfast shape 
And undisturbed proportions ; but a thing 
Subject, you deem, to vital accidents ; 
And, like the water-lily, lives and thrives. 
Whose root is fixed in stable earth, whose head 
Floats on the tossing waves. With joy sincere 



180 THE EXCURSION. 

I re-salute these sentiments confirmed 
By your authority. But how acquire 
The inward principle that gives effect 
To outward argument ; the passive will 
Meek to admit ; the active energy, 
Strong and unbounded to embrace, and firm 
To keep and cherish ? how shall man unite 
With self-forgetting tenderness of heart 
And earth-despising dignity of soul ? 
Wise in that union, and without it blind !" 

" The way," said I, " to court, if not obtain 
The ingenuous mind, apt to be set aright ; 
This, in the lonely dell discoursing, you 
Declared at large ; and by what exercise 
From visible nature, or the inner self 
Power may be trained, and renovation brought 
To those who need the gift. But, after all. 
Is aught so certain as that man is doomed 
To breathe beneath a vault of ignorance ? 
The natural roof of that dai'k house in which 
His soul is pent ! How little can be known — 
This is the wise man's sigh ; how far we err — 
This is the good man's not unfrequent pang ! 
And they perhaps err least, the lowly class 
Whom a benign necessity compels 
To follow reason's least ambitious course ; 
Such do I mean who, unperplexed by doubt, 
And unincited by a wish to look 
Into high objects farther than they may. 
Pace to and fro, from mom till even-tide. 
The narrow avenue of daily toil 
For daily bread." 



THE PASTOR. 181 

" Yes," buoyantly exclaimed 
The pale Recluse — " praise to tlie sturdy plough. 
And patient spade ; praise to the simple crook, 
And ponderous loom — resounding while it holds 
Body and mind in one captivity ; 
And let the light mechanic tool be hailed 
With honor ; which, encasing by the power 
Of long companionship, the artist's hand, 
Cuts off that hand, with all its world of nerves. 
From a too busy commerce with the heart ! 
— Inglorious implements of craft and toil, 
Both ye that shape and build, and ye that force, 
By slow solicitation, earth to yield 
Her annual bounty, sparingly dealt forth 
With wise reluctance ; you would I extol, 
Nor for gross good alone which ye produce. 
But for the impertinent and ceaseless strife 
Of proofs and reasons ye preclude — in those 
Who to your dull society are born, 
And with their humble birthright rest content. 
— ^Would I had ne'er renounced it !" 

A slight flush 
Of moral anger previously had tinged 
The old Man's cheek ; but, at this closing turn 
Of self-reproach, it passed away. Said he, 
" That which we feel we utter ; as we think 
So have we argued ; reaping for our pains 
No visible recompense. For our relief 
You," to the Pastor turning thus he spake, 
" Have kindly interposed. May I entreat 
Your further help ? The mine of real life 
Dig for us ; and present us, in the shape 
Of virgin ore, tliat gold which we, by pains 
16 



182 THE EXCURSION. 

Fruitless as those of airy alchemists. 

Seek from the torturing crucible. There lies 

Around us a domain where you have long 

Watched both the outward course and inner heart '. 

Give us, for our abstractions, solid facts ; 

For our disputes, plain pictures. Say what man 

He is who cultivates yon hanging field ; 

What qualities of mind she bears, who comes 

For morn and evening service, with her pail. 

To that green pasture ; place before our sight 

The family who dwell within yon house 

Fenced round with glittering laurel ; or in that 

Below, from which the curling smoke ascends. 

Or rather, as we stand on holy earth. 

And have the dead around us, take from them 

Your instances ; for they are both best known. 

And by frail man most equitably judged.^ 

Epitomize the life ; pronounce, you can, 

Authentic epitaphs on some of these 

Who, from their lowly mansions hither brought. 

Beneath this turf lie mouldering at our feet : 

So, by your records, may our doubts be solved ; 

And so, not searching higher, we may learn 

To prize the breath we share with human kind / 

And look upon the dust of man with awe." 

Tlie Priest replied — " An office you impose 
For which peculiar requisites are mine ; 
Yet much, I feel, is wanting — else the task 
Would be most grateful. True indeed it is 
That they whom death has hidden from our sight 
Are worthiest of the mind's regard ; with these 
The future cannot contradict the past ; 



THE PASTOR, 183 

Mortality's last exercise and proof 
Is undergone ; the transit made that shows 
The very Soul, revealed as she departs. 
Yet, on your first suggestion, will I give, 
Ere we descend into these silent vaidts, 
One picture from the living. 

You behold, 
High on the breast of yon dark mountain, dark 
With stony barrenness, a shining speck 
Bright as a sunbeam sleeping till a shower 
Brush it away, or cloud pass over it ; 
And such it might be deemed — a sleeping sunbeam 
But 'tis a plot of cultivated ground, 
Cut oflf, an island in the dusky waste ; 
And that attractive brightness is its own. 
The lofty site, by nature framed to tempt 
Amid a wilderness of rocks and stones 
The tiller's hand, a hermit might have chosen. 
For opportunity presented, thence 
Far forth to send his wandering eye o'er land 
And ocean, and look down upon the works, 
Tlie habitations, and the ways of men, 
Himself unseen ! But no tradition tells 
That «ver hermit dipped liis maple dish 
In the sweet spring that lurks 'mid yon green fields ; 
And no such visionary views belong 
To those who occupy and till the ground. 
High on that mountain where they long have dwelt 
A wedded pair in childless sohtude. 
A house of stones collected on the spot. 
By rude hands built, with rocky knolls in front, 
Backed also by a ledge of rock, whose crest 
Of birch-trees waves over the chimnev top ; 



184 THE EXCURSION. 

A rough abode — in color, shape, and size. 

Such as in unsafe times of border- war 

Might have been wished for and contrived, to elude 

The eye of roving plunderer — for their need 

Suffices ; and unshaken bears the assault 

Of their most dreaded foe, the strong South-west 

In anger blowing from the distant sea. 

— Alone within her solitary hut ; 

There, or Avithin the compass of her fields. 

At any moment may the Dame be found. 

True as Uie stock-dove to her shallow nest 

And to the ffrove that holds it. She beguiles 

By intermingled work of house and field 

The summer's day, and winter's ; with success 

iN'ot equal, but sufficient to maintain. 

Even at the worst, a smooth stream of contentj> 

Until the expected hour at which her Mate 

From the far-distant qitarry's vault returns; 

And by his converse crowns a silent day 

With evening cheerfulness. In powers of mindj, 

In scale of culture, few among my flock 

Hold lower rank than this sequestered pair : 

But true humility descends from heaven ; 

And that best gift of heaven hath fallen on them ; 

Abundant recompense for every want. 

— Stoop from your height, ye proud, and copy these I 

Who, in their noiseless dwelling-place, can hear 

The voice of wisdom whispering scriptui'e texts. 

For the mind's government, or temper's peace ; 

And recommending for their mutual need, 

Forgiveaess, patience, hope,, and charity 1'* 



THE PAS TOE. 185 

** Much was I pleased," the grey -haired Wanderer 

said, 
** When, to those shining fields our notice first 
You turned ; and. yet more pleased have from your 

lips 
Gathered this fair report of them who dwell 
In that retirement ; whither, by such course 
Of evil hap or good as oft awaits 
A tired way -faring man, once / was brought 
While traversing alone yon mountain pass. 
Dark on my road the autumnal evening fell, 
And night succeeded with unusual gloom. 
So hazardous that feet and hands became 
Guides better than mine eyes— until a light 
High in the gloom appeared, too high, methought, 
For human habitation ; but I longed 
To reach it, destitute of other hope. 
I looked with steadiness as sailors look 
On the north star, or watch-tower's distant lamp, 
And saw the light — now fixed — and shifting now— 
Not like a dancing meteor, but in line 
Of never varyinac motion, to and fro. 
It is no night-fire of the naked hills, 
Thought I — some friendly covert must be near. 
With this persuasion thitherward my steps 
I turn, and reach at last the guiding light ; 
Joy to myself ! but to the heart of her 
Who there was standing on the open hill, 
(The same kind Matron whom your tongue hath 

praised) 
Alarm and disappointment ! The alarm 
Ceased, when she learned through what mishap I 

came, 



186 THE EXCURSION. 

And by "VTliat help had gained those distant fields. 

Drawn from her cottage on that aery height. 

Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood, 

Or paced the ground — to guide her Husband home. 

By that unwearied signal, kenned afar ; 

An anxious duty ! which the lofty site. 

Traversed biit by a few irregular paths, 

Imposes, whensoe'er untoward chance 

Detains him after his accustomed hour 

Till night lies black upon the ground. ' But come. 

Come,' said the Matron, ' to our poor abode ; 

Those dark rocks hide it !' Entering, I beheld 

A blazing fire — beside a cleanly hearth 

Sate down ; and to her office, with leave asked. 

The dame returned. 

Or ere that glowing pile 
Of mountain turf required the builder's hand 
Its wasted splendor to repair, the door 
Opened, and she re-entered with glad looks, 
Her Help-mate following. Hospitable fare, 
Frank conversation, made the evening's treat 
Need a bewildered traveller wish for more ? 
But more was given ; I studied as we sate 
By the bright fire, the good Man's form, and face, 
Not less than beautiful ; an open brow 
Of undisturbed humanity ; a cheek 
Suffused with something of a feminine hue ; 
Eyes beaming courtesy and mild regard ; 
But, in the quicker turns of the discourse, 
Expression slowly varying, that evinced 
A tardy apprehension. From a fount 
Lost, thought I, in the obscurities of time. 
But honored once, those features and that mien 



THE PASTOR. 187 

May have descended, though I see them here. 
In such a man, so gentle and subdued, 
Withal so gracefu.1 in his gentleness, 
A race illustrious for heroic deeds, 
Humbled, but not degraded, may expire. 
This pleasing fancy (cherished and upheld 
By sundry recollections of such fall 
From high to low, ascent from low to high, 
As books record, and even the careless mind 
Cannot but notice among men and things) 
Went with me to the place of my repose. 

Roused by the crowing cock at dawn of day^ 
I yet had risen too late to interchange 
A morning salutation with my Host, 
Gone forth already to the far-oif seat 
Of his day's work. ' Three dark mid-winter monthig 
' Pass,' said the Matron, ' and I never see, 

* Save when the Sabbath brings its kind release, 

* My Helpmate's face by hght of day. He quits 
' His door in darkness, nor till dusk returns. 

* And, through Heaven's blessing, thus we gain the 

bread 

* For which we pray; and for the wants provide 

* Of sickness, accident, and helpless age. 

' Companions have I many ; many friends, 

* Dependants, comforters— my wheel, my fire, 

* All day the house -clock ticking in mine ear, 

* The cackling hen, the tender chicken brood. 

' And the wild birds that gather round my porch. 

* This honest sheep dog's countenance I read ; 

* With him can talk ; nor blush to waste a word 

* On creatures less intelhgent and shvewd. 



188 THE EXCUKSION. 

* And if the blustering wind that drives the clouds 

* Care not for me, he hngers round my door, 

* And makes me pastime when our tempers suit ; — 

* But, above all, my thoughts are my support, 

* My comfort : — would that they were oftener fixed 
' On what, for guidance in the way that leads 

* To heaven I know, by my Redeemer taught.' 
The Matron ended — nor could I forbear 

To exclaim—' happy ! yielding to the law 

Of these privations, richer in the main ! — 

While thankless thousands are opprest and clogged 

By ease and leisure ; by the very wealth 

And pride of opportunity made poor ; 

While tens of thousands falter in their path. 

And sink, through utter want of cheering light ; 

For you the hours of labor do not flag ; 

For you each evening hath its shining star. 

And eveiy Sabbath-day its golden sun.' " 

" Yes !" said the Solitary with a smile 
That seemed to break from an expanding heart, 
'" The untutored bird may found, and so construct, 
And with such soft materials line, her nest 
Fixed in the centre of a prickly brake. 
That the thorns wound her not ; they only guard. 
Powers not unjustly likened to those gifts 
Of happy instinct which the woodland bird 
Shares with her species, nature's grace sometimes 
Upon the individual doth confer. 
Among her higher creatures born and trained 
To use of reason. And, I own that, tired 
Of the ostentatious world — a swelling stage 
With empty actions and vain passions stuffed, 



THE PASTOR. 189 

And from the private struggles of mankind 

Hoping far less than I could wish to hope. 

Far less than once I trusted and believed — 

I love to hear of those, who, not contending 

Nor summoned to contend for virtue's prize, 

Miss not the humbler good at which they aim, 

Blest with a kindly faculty to blunt 

The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn 

Into their contraries the petty plagues 

And hindrances with which they stand beset. 

In early youth, among my native hills, 

I knew a Scottish Peasant who possessed 

A few small crofts or stone-encumbred ground ; 

Masses of every shape and size, that lay 

Scattered about under the mouldering walls 

Of a rough precipice ; and some, apart. 

In quarters unobnoxious to such chance. 

As if the moon had showered them down in spite. 

But he repined not. Though the plough was scared 

By these obstructions, ' round the shady stones 

A fertilising moisture,' said the Swain, 

* Gathers, and is preserved ; and feeding dews 

* And damps, through all the droughty summer day 
' From out their substance issuing, maintain 

* Herbage that never fails : no grass springs up 

* So green, so fresh, so plentiful, as mine !' 
But thinly sown these natures : rare, at least, 
The mutual aptitude of seed and soil 

That yields such kindly product. He, whose bed 
Perhaps yon loose sods cover, the poor Pensioner 
Brought yesterday from our sequestered dell 
Here to lie down in lasting quiet, he, 
If living now, could otherwise report 



190 THE EXCURSION. 

Of rustic loneliness : that grey-haired Orphan — 

So call him, for humanity to him 

No parent was — feelingly could have told, 

In life, in death, what solitude can breed 

Of selfishness, and cruelty, and vice ; 

Or, if it breed not, hath not power to cure. 

— But your compliance, Sir ! with our request 

My words too long have hindered." 

Undeterred, 
Perhaps incited rather, by these shocks, 
In no ungracious opposition, given 
To the confiding spirit of his own 
Experienced faith, the reverend Pastor said. 
Around him looking ; " Where shall I begin ? 
Who shall be first selected from my flock 
Gathered together in their peaceful fold ?" 
He paused — and having lifted up his eyes 
To the pure heaven, he cast them down again 
Upon the earth beneath his feet ; and spake • — 

" To a mysteriously -united pair 
This place is consecrate ; to Death and Life, 
And to the best affections that proceed 
From then- conjunction ; consecrate to faith 
In him who bled for man upon the cross ; 
Hallowed to revelation ; and no less 
To reason's mandates ; and the hopes divine 
Of pure imagination ; — above all. 
To charity, and love, that have provided, 
Within these precincts, a capacious bed 
And receptacle, open to the good 
And evil, to the just and the unjust ; 
In which they find an equal resting-place : 



THE PASTOR. 191 

Even as tte multitude of kindred brooks 

And streams, whose murmur fills this hollow vale. 

Whether then* course be turbulent or smooth, 

Their waters clear or sullied, all are lost 

Within the bosom of yon crystal Lake, 

And end their journey in the same repose ! 

And blest are they who sleep ; and we that know. 
While in a spot like this we breathe and walk, 
That all beneath us by the wings are covered 
Of motherly humanity, outspread 
And gathering all within their tender shade, 
Though loth and slow to come ! A battle-field. 
In stillness left when slaughter is no more, 
With this compared, makes a strange spectacle ! 
A dismal prospect yields the wild shore strewn 
With wrecks, and trod by feet of young and old 
Wandering about in miserable search 
Of friends or kindred, whom the angry sea 
Restores not to their prayer ! Ah ! who would think 
That all the scattered subjects which compose 
Earth's melancholy vision through the space 
Of all her climes — these wretched, these depraved 
To virtue lost, insensible of peace, 
From the delights of charity cut off, 
To pity dead, the oppressor and the opprest ; 
Tyrants who utter the destroying word, 
And slaves who will consent to be destroyed — • 
Were of one species with the sheltered few, 
Who, with a dutiful and tender hand, 
Lodged, in a dear, appropriated spot. 
This file of infants ; some that never breathed 
The vital air ; others, which, though allowed 



192 THE EXCURSION. 

That privilege, did yet expire too soon, 

Or with too brief a warning, to admit 

Adminstration of the holy rite 

That lovingly consigns the babe to the arms 

Of Jesus, and his everlasting care. 

These that in trembling hope are laid apart ; 

And the besprinkled nursling, imrequired 

Till he begins to smile upon the breast 

That feeds him ; and the tottering little-one 

Taken from air and sunshine when the rose 

Of infancy first blooms upon his cheek ; 

The thinking, thoughtless, school-boy ; the bold youth 

Of soul impetuous, and the bashful maid 

Smitten while all the promises of life 

Are opening round her ; those of middle age, 

Cast down while confident in strength they stand, 

Like pillars fixed more firmly, as might seem, 

And more secure, by very weight of all 

That, for support, rests on them ; the decayed 

And burthensome ; and lastly, that poor few 

Whose light of reason is with age extinct ; 

The hopeful and the hopeless, first and last, 

The earliest summoned and the longest spared — 

Are here deposited, with tribute paid 

Various, but unto each some tribute paid ; 

As if, amid these peaceful hills and groves. 

Society were touched with kind concern, 

And gentle ' Nature grieved, that one should die ;" 

Or, if the change demanded no regret. 

Observed the liberating stroke — and blessed. 

And whence that tribute ? wherefore these re- 
gards ? 



THE PASTOR. 193 

Kot from the naked Heart alone of Man 
(Tliougli claiming high distinction upon earth 
As the sole spring and fountain-head of tears, 
His own peculiar utterance for distress 
Or gladness) — No," the philosophic Priest 
Continued, " 't is not in the vital seat 
Of feeling to produce them, without aid 
From the pure soul, the soul sublime and pure ; 
With her two faculties of eye and ear 
The one by which a creature, whom his sins 
Have rendered prone, can upward look to heaven ; 
The other that empowers him to perceive 
The voice of Deity, on height and plain. 
Whispering those truths in stillness, which the Word, 
To the four quarters of the winds, proclaims. 
Not without such assistance could the use 
Of these benign observances prevail : 
Thus are they born, thus fostered, thus maintained. 
And by the care prospective of our wise 
Forefathers, who, to guard against the shocks 
The fluctuation and the decay of things. 
Embodied and established these high truths 
In solemn institutions : • — men convinced 
That life is love and immortality. 
The being one, and one the element. 
There lies the channel, and original bed, 
From the beginning, hollowed out and scooped 
For Man's affections — else betrayed and lost, 
And swallowed up 'mid deserts infinite ! 
This is the genuine course, the aim, and end 
Of prescient reason ; all conclusions else 
Are abject, vain, presumptuous, and perverse. 
17 



194 THE EXCURSION. 

The faith partaking of those holy times, 
Life, I repeat, is energy of love 
Divine or human ; exercised in pain, 
In strife, and tribulation ; and ordained. 
If so approved and sanctified, to pass, 
Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy." • 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK SIXTH. 



E CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE 

MOUNTAINS. 



THE CHUUCH-YARD AMONG THE 
MOUNTAINS. 



ARGUMENT. 



Poet's Address to the State and Church of England.— The Pastbr not 
inferior to the ancient Worthies of the Church. — He begins his Narra^- 
tives with an instance of unrequited Love. — Anguish of mind sub- 
dued, and how. — The lonely Miner. — An instance of perseverance — 
Which leads by contrast to an example of abused talents, irresolution, 
and weakness. — Solitary, applying this covertly to his owu case, asks 
for an instance of some Stranger, whose dispoBitions may have led 
him to end his days here. — Pastor, in answer, gives an account of the 
harmonizing influence of Solitude upon two men of opposite prin- 
ciples, who had encountered agitations in public life. — The rule by 
which Peace may be obtained expressed, and where, — Solitai-y hints 
at an overpowering Fatality. — Answer of the Pastor. — What subjects 
he will exclude from his Narrative. — CoQVersatioii upoa this. — Instance 
of an imamiable character, a Feaiale, and why given, — Contrasted 
with this, a meek sufferer, from unguarded and betrayed love. — 
Instance of heavier guilt, and its consequences to the Offender.— 
With this instance of a Marriage Contract broken is contrasted one of 
a Widower, evidencing his faithful affection towaj-ds his deceased wife 
by his care of their female Childien. 

Hail to the crown by Freedom shaped — to gird 
An EngHsh Sovereign's brow ! and to the throne 
"Whereon he sits ! Whose deep foundations lie 
In veneration and the people's love ; 
"Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law. 
— Hail to the State of England ! And conjoin 
With this a salutation as devout, 
Made to the spiritual fabric of her Church ; 
17* 197 



198 THEEXCUESION. 

Founded in truth ; by blood of Martyrdom 
Cemented ; by the hands of Wisdom reared 
In beauty of holiness, with, ordered pomp, 
Decent and unreproved. The voice, that greets 
The majesty of both, shall pray for both j 
That, mutually protected and sustained. 
They may endure long as the sea surrounds 
This favored Land, or sunshine warms her soil. 

And 0, ye swelling hills, and spacious plains ! 
Besprent from shore to shore with steeple-towers. 
And spires whose ' silent finger points to heaven ;" 
Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk 
Of ancient minster lifted above the cloud 
Of the dense air, which town or city breeds 
To intercept the sun's glad beams — may ne'er 
That true succession fail of English hearts. 
Who, with ancestral feeling, can perceive 
V/hat in those holy structures ye possess 
Of ornamental interest, and the charm 
Of pious sentiment diffused afar. 
And human charity, and social love. 
— Thus never shall the indignities of time 
Approach their reverend graces, unopposed ; 
Nor shall the elements be free to hurt 
Their fair proportions ; nor the blinder rage 
Of bigot zeal madly to overturn ; 
And, if the desolating hand of war 
Spare them, they shall continue to bestow, 
Upon the thronged abodes of busy men 
(Depraved, and ever prone to fill the mind 
Exclusively with transitory things) 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 199 

An air and mien of dignified pursuit ; 
Of sweet civility, on rustic wilds. 

The Poet, fostering for his native land 
Such hope, entreats that servants may abound 
Of those pure altars worthy ; ministers 
Detached from pleasure, to the love of gain 
Superior, insusceptible of pride. 
And by ambitious longings undisturbed ; 
Men whose delight is where their duty leads 
Or fixes them ; whose least distinguished day 
Shines with some portion of that heavenly lustre 
Which makes the Sabbath lovely in the sight 
Of blessed angels, pitying human cares. 
— And, as on earth it is the doom of truth 
To be perpetually attacked by foes 
Open or covert, be that priesthood still. 
For her defence, replenished with a band 
Of strenuous champions, in scholastic arts 
Thoroughly disciplined ; (if in the course 
Of the revolving world's disturbances 
Cause should recur, which righteous Heaven avert I 
To meet such trial, (from their spiritual sires 
Degenerate ; who, constrained to wield the sword 
Of disputation, shrunk not, though assailed 
With hostile din, and combating in sight 
Of angry umpires, partial and unjust ; 
And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in fire. 
So to declare the conscience satisfied : 
Nor for their bodies would accept release ; 
But, blessing God and praising him, bequeathed 
With their last breath, from out the smouldering 
flame, 



200 THE EXCURSION. 

The faith which they by diligence had earned, 
Or, through illumuiating grace, received, 
For their dear countrymen, and all mankind. 
high example, constancy divine ! 

Even such a Man (inheriting the zeal 
And from the sanctity of elder times 
Not deviating, — a priest, the like of whom, 
If multiplied, and in their stations set, 
Would o'er the bosom of a joyful land 
Spread true religion and her genuine fruits) 
Before me stood that day ; on holy ground 
Fraught with the relics of mortality. 
Exalting tender themes, by just degrees 
To lofty raised ; and to the highest, last ; 
The head and mighty paramount of truths, — • 
Immortal life, in never-fading worlds. 
For mortal creatures, conquered and secured. 

That basis laid, those principles of faith 
Announced, as a preparatory act 
Of reverence done to the spirit of the place, 
The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground ; 
Not, as before, like one oppressed with awe. 
But with a mild and social cheerfulness ; 
Then to the Solitary turned, and spake. 

" At morn or eve, in your retired domain, 
Perchance you not unfrequently have marked 
A Visitor — in quest of herbs and flowers ; 
Too delicate employ, as would appear. 
For one, who, though of drooping mien, had yet 
From nature's kindliness received a frame 
Robust as ever rural labor bred." 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 201 

The Solitary answered : " Such a Form 
Full well I recollect. We often crossed 
Each other's path ; but, as the Intruder seemed 
Fondly to prize the silence which he kept, 
And I as willingly did cherish mine, 
We met, and passed, like shadows. I have heard, 
From my good Host, that being crazed in brain 
By unrequited love, he scaled the rocks, 
Dived into caves, and pierced the matted woods. 
In hope to find some virtuous h,erb of power 
To cure his malady ! 

The Vicar smiled, — 
" Alas ! before to-morrow's sun goes down 
His habitation will be here : for him 
That open grave is destined." 

" Died he then 
Of pain and grief?" the Solitary asked, 
" Do not believe it ; never could that be !" 

*' He loved," the Vicar answered, " deeply loved, 
Loved fondly, truly, fervently ; and dared 
At length to tell his love, but sued in vain ; 
Rejected, yea repelled ; and, if with scorn 
Upon the haughty maiden's brow, 't is but 
A high-prized plume which female Beauty wears 
In wantonness of conquest, or puts on 
To cheat the world, or from herself to hide 
Humiliation, when no longer free. 
That he could brook, and glory in ; — but when 
The tidings came that she whom he had wooed 
Was wedded to another, and his heart 
Was forced to rend away its only hope ; 
Then, Pity could have scarcely found on earth 



202 THE EXCURSION. 

An object wortliier of regard than he, 
In the transition of that bitter hour ! 
Lost was she, lost ; nor could the Sufferer say 
That in the act of preference he had been 
Unjustly dealt with ; but the Maid was gone ! 
Had vanished from his prospects and desires ; 
Not by translation to the heavenly choir 
Who have put oflf their mortal spoils — ah no ! 
She lives another's wishes to complete, — 
' Joy be their lot, and happiness,' he cried, 
' His lot and hers, as misery must be mine !' 

Such was that strong concussion ; but the Man, 
Who trembled, trunk and limbs, hke some huge oak 
By a fierce tempest shaken, soon resimied 
The stedfast quiet natural to a mind 
Of composition gentle and sedate. 
And, in its movements, circumspect and slow. 
To books, and to the long-forsaken desk, 
O'er which enchained by science he had loved 
To bend, he stoutly re-addressed himself. 
Resolved to quell his pain, and search for truth 
With keener appetite (if that might he) 
And closer industry. Of what ensued 
Within the heart no outward sign appeared 
Till a betraying sickliness was seen 
To tinge his cheek ; and through his frame it crept 
With slow mutation unconcealable ; 
Such universal change as autumn makes 
In the fair body of a leafy grove 
Discolored, then divested. 

'Tis affirmed 
By poets skilled in nature's secret ways 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 203 

That Love will not submit to be controlled 

By mastery : — and the good Man lacked not friend 

Who strove to instil this truth into his mind, 

A mind in all heart-mysteries imversed. 

' Go to the hills,' said one, ' remit awhile 

* This baneful diligence : — at early morn 

* Court the fresh air, explore the heaths and woods ; 
' And, leaving it to others to foretell, 

' By calculations sage, the ebb and flow 

' Of tides, and when the moon will be eclipsed, 

* Do you, for your own benefit, construct 

' A calendar of flowers, plucked as they blow 

* Where health abides and cheerfulness, and peace.' 
The attempt was made ; — 'tis needless to report 
How hopelessly ; but innocence is strong, 

And an entire simplicity of mind 
A thing most sacred in the eye of Heaven ; 
That opens, for such sufi'erers, relief 
Within the soul, fountains of grace divine ; 
And doth commend their weakness and disease 
To Natui-e's care, assisted in her office 
By all the elements that round her wait 
To generate, to preserve, and to restore ; 
And by her beautiful array of forms 
Shedding sweet influence from above ; or pure 
Delight exhaling from the ground they tread." 

" Impute it not to impatience, if," exclaimed 
The Wanderer, " I infer that he was healed 
By perseverance in the course prescribed." 

" You do not err : the powers, that had been lost 
By slow degrees, were gradually regained ; 



204 THE EXCUKSION. 

The fluttering nerves composed ; the beating heart 
In rest established ; and the jarring thoughts 
To harmony restored. — But yon dark mould 
Will cover him, m the fulness of his strength, 
Hastily smitten by a fever's force ; 
Yet not with stroke so sudden as refused 
Time to look back with tenderness on her 
Whom he had loved in passion ; and to send 
Some farewell words— with one, but one, request ; 
That, from his dying hand, she would accept 
Of his possessions that which most he prized ; 
A book, upon whose leaves some chosen plants, 
By his own hand disposed with nicest care, 
In undecaying beauty were preserved ; 
Mute register, to him, of time and place. 
And various fluctuations in the breast ; 
To her, a monument of faithful love 
Conquered, and in tranquillity retained! 

Close to his destined habitation, lies 
One who achieved a humbler victory. 
Though marvellous in its kind. A place there is 
High in these mountains, that allured a band 
Of keen adventurers to unite their pains 
In search of precious ore : they tried, were foiled—" 
And all desisted, all, save him alone. 
He, taking counsel of his own clear thoughts. 
And trusting only to his own weak hands. 
Urged unremittingly the stubborn work, 
Unseconded, uncountenanced ; then, as time 
Passed on, while still his lonely eS"orts found 
No recompense, derided ; and a,t length, 
By many pitied, as insane of mind ; 



•r 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 205 

By others dreaded as the luckless thrall 

Of subterranean Sphits feeding hope 

By various mockery of sight and sound ; 

Hope after hope, encouraged and destroyed. 

— But when the lord of seasons had matured 

The fruits of earth through space of twice ten years, 

The mountain's entrails offered to his view 

And trembling grasp the long-deferred reward. 

Not with more transport did Columbus greet 

A world, his rich discovery ! But our Swain, 

A very hero till his point was gained. 

Proved all unable to support the weight 

Of prosperous fortune. On the fields he looked 

With an unsettled liberty of thought. 

Wishes and endless schemes ; by daylight walked 

Giddy and restless ; ever and anon 

Quaffed in his gratitude immoderate cups ; 

And truly might be said to die of joy ! 

He vanished ; but conspicuous to this day 

The path remains that hnked his cottage-door 

To the mine's mouth ; a long and slanting track, 

Upon the rugged mountain's stony side. 

Worn by his daily visits to and from 

The darksome centre of a constant hope. 

This vestige, neither force of beating rain, 

Nor the vicissitudes of frost and thaw 

Shall cause to fade, till ages pass away ; 

And it is named, in memory of the event, 

The Path of Perseverance." 

" Thou from whom 
Man has his strenarth," exclaimed the Wanderer, " oh! 
Do thou direct it ! To the virtuous grant 
The penetrative eye which can perceive 
18 



2f)6 THE EX CURS IQN, 

In this blind world the guiding vein of hope ; 
That, like this Laborer, such may dig their way, 
' Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified ;' 
Grant to the wise his firmness of resolve !" 

'•■ That prayer were not superfluous," said the 
Piiest, 
" Amid the noblest relics, proudest dust, 
That Westminster, for Britain's glory, holds 
Within the bosom of her awful pile. 
Ambitiously collected. Yet the sigh. 
Which wafts that prayer to heaven, is due to all. 
Wherever laid, who living fell below 
Their virtue's humbler mark; a sigh oi pain 
If to the opposite extreme they sank. 
How would you pity her who yonder rests ; 
Him, farther off ; the pair, who here are laid ; 
But, above all, that mixture of earth's mould 
Whom sight of this green hillock to my mind 
Recals ! 

He lived not till his locks were nipped 
By seasonable frost of age ; nor died 
Before his temples, prematurely forced 
To mix the manly brown with silver grey. 
Gave obvious instance of the sad effect 
Produced, when thoughtless Folly hath usurped 
The natural crown that sage Experience wears. 
Gay, volatile, ingenious, quick to learn. 
And prompt to exhibit all that he possessed 
Or could perform ; a zealous actor, hired 
Into the troop of mirth, a soldier, sworn 
Into the lists of giddy enterprise — 
Such was he ; yet, as if within his frame 



THE CHURCH -YARD, ETC, 207 

Two several souls alternately liad lodged, 

Two sets of manners could the Youth put on ; 

And, fraught with antics as the Indian bird 

That writhes and chatters in her .wiry cage. 

Was graceful when it pleased him, smooth and still 

As the mute swan that floats adown the stream. 

Or, on the waters of the unruffled lake. 

Anchors her placid beauty, Not a leaf, 

That flutters on the bough, lighter than he ; 

And not a flower, that droops in the green shade, 

More winningly reserved i If ye inquire 

How such consummate elegance was bred 

Amid those wilds, this answer may suffice ; 

'T was Nature's will ; who sometimes undertakes. 

For the reproof of human vanity. 

Art to outstrip in her peculiar walk. 

Hence, for this Favorite — lavishly endowed 

With personal gifts, and bright instinctive wit. 

While both, embellishinof each other, stood 

Yet farther recommended by the charm 

Of fine demeanor, and by dance and song, 

And skill in letters — every fancy shaped 

Fair expectations ; nor, when to th-e world's 

Capacious field forth went the Adventurer, there 

Were he and his attainments overlooked. 

Or scantily rewarded ; but all hopes. 

Cherished for him, he suffered to depart. 

Like blighted buds ; or clouds that mimicked land 

Before the sailor's eye; or diamond drops 

That sparkling decked the morning grass ; or aught- 

That was attractive, and hath ceased to be 1 



208 THE EXCURSION. 

Yet, when this Prodigal returned, the rites 
Of joyful greeting were on him bestowed, 
Who, by humiliation undeterred, 
Souglit for his weariness a place of rest 
Within his Father's gates, — Whence came he? — 

clothed 
In tattered carb, from hoveld where abides 
Necessity, the stationary host 
Of vagrant poverty ; from rifted barns 
Where no one dwells but the wide-staring owl 
And the owl's prey ; from these bare haunts, to whicli 
He had descended from the proud saloon, 
He came, the ghost of beauty and of health. 
The wreck of gaiety ! But soon revived 
In strength, in power refitted, he renewed 
His suit to Fortune ; and she smiled again 
Upon a fickle Ingrate. Thrice he rose, 
Thrice sank as willingl)''. For he — whose nerves 
Were used to thrill with pleasure, while his voice 
Softly accompanied the tuneful harp, 
By the nice finger of fair ladies touched 
In glittering halls — was able to derive 
No less enjoyment from an abject choice. 
Who happier for the moment — who more blithe 
Than this fallen Spirit ? in those dreary holds 
His talents leading to exalt the freaks 
Of merry-making begg>xrs, — now, provoked 
To laughter multiplied in louder peals 
By his malicious wit ; then, all enchained 
With mute astonishment, themselves to see 
In their own hearts outdone, their fame eclipsed. 
As by the very presence of the Fiend 
Who dictates and inspires illusive feats. 



™J 



n:! 



THE CHURGH. YARD, ETC. QQi 

For knavish purposes ! The city, too, 

(With shame I speak it) to her guilty bowers 

Allured him, sunk so low in self-respect 

As there to linger, there to eat his bread, 

Hired minstrel of voluptuous blandishment ; 

Charming the air with skill of hand or voice, 

Listen w^ho would, be wrought upon who might, 

Sincerely wretched hearts, or falsely gay. 

— Such the too frequent tenor of his boast 

In ears that relished the report ; — but all 

Was from his Parents happily ctsncealed ; 

Who saw enough for blame and pitying love. 

They also were permitted to receive 

His last, repentant breath ; and closed his eyes, 

No more to open on that irksome world 

Where he had long existed in the state 

Of a young fowl beneath one mother hatched, 

Though from another sprung, different in kind : 

Where he had lived, and could not cease to live. 

Distracted in propensity ; content 

With neither element of good or ill ; 

And yet in both rejoicing ; man unblest ; 

Of contradictions infinite the slave, 

Till his deliverance, when Mercy made him 

One with himself, and one with them that sleep." 

" 'T is strange," observed the Solitary, " strange 
It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful, 
That in a land where charity provides 
VoY all that can no longer feed themselves, 
A man like this should choose to bring his shame 
To the parental door ; and with his sighs 
Infect the air Avhich he had freel}'' breathed 
18* 



210 THE EXCURSION. 

In happy mfancy. He could not pine, 
Through lack of converse ; no — he must have found 
Abundant exercise for thought and speech, 
In his dividual being, self-reviewed, 
Self-catechised, self-punished. -•-Some there are 
Who, drawing near their final home, and much 
And daily longing that the same were reached, 
Yf ould rather shun than seek the fellowship 
Of kindred mould. — Such haply here are laid ?" 

" Yes," said the Priest, " the Genius of our hills— 
Who seems, by these stupendous barriers cast 
Round his domain, desirous not alone 
To keep his own, but also to exclude 
All other progeny — doth sometimes lure, 
Even by his studied depth of privacy. 
The unhappy alien hoping to obtain 
Concealment, or seduced by wish to find, 
.In place from outward molestation fi-ee, 
Helps to internal ease. Of many such 
Could I discourse ; but as their stay was brief. 
So their departure only left behind 
Fancies and loose conjectures. Other trace 
Survives, for worthy mention, of a pair 
Who., from the pressure of their several fates. 
Meeting as strangers, in a petty town 
Whose blue roofs ornament a distant reach 
Of this far- winding vale, remained as fiiends 
True to their choice ; and gave their bones in trust 
To this loved cemetery,' here to lodge 
With unescutcheoned privacy interred 
Far from the family vault. — A Chieftain one 
By right of birth ; within Avhose spotless breast 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 211 

The fire of ancient Caledonia burned : 

He, with the foremost, whose impatience hailed 

The Stuart, landing to resume, by force 

Of arms, the crown which bigotry had lost, 

Aroused his clan ; and, fighting at their head^ 

With his brave sword, endeavored to prevent 

CuUoden's fatal overthrow. Escaped 

From that disastrous rout, to foreign shores 

He fled ; and when the lenient hand of time 

Those troubles had appeased, he sought and gained. 

For his obscured condition, an obscure 

Retreat, within this nook of English groimd* 

The other, born in Britain's southern tract, 
Had fixed his milder loyalty, and placed 
His gentler sentiments of love and hate. 
There, where they placed them who in conscience 

prized 
The new succession, as a line of kings 
Whose oath had virtue to protect the land 
Against the dire assaults of papacy 
And arbitrary rule. But launch thy bark 
On the distempered flood of public life. 
And cause for most rare triumph will be thine 
If, spite of keenest eye and steadiest hand. 
The stream, that bears thee forward, prove not, soon 
Or late, a perilous master. He — who oft, 
Beneath the battlements and stately trees 
That round his mansion cast a sober gloom, 
Had moralized on this, and other truths 
Of kindred import, pleased and satisfied — 
Was forced to vent his wisdom with a sigh 
Heaved from the heart in fortune's bitterness. 



gl2 THE EXCURSION. 

When he had crushed a plentiful estate 

By ruinous contest, to obtain a seat 

In Britain's senate. Fruitless was the attempt: 

And while the uproar of that desperate strife 

Continued yet to vibrate on his ear, 

The vanquished Whig, under a borrowed name, 

(For the mere sound and echo of his own 

Haunted him with sensations of disgust 

That he was glad to lose) slunk from the world 

To the deep shade of those untravelled Wilds ; 

In which the Scottish Laird had long possessed 

An undisturbed abode. Here, then, they met, 

Two doughty champions ; flaming Jacobite 

And sullen Hanoverian ! You might think 

That losses and vexations, less severe 

Than those which they had severally sustained, 

Would have inclined each to abate his zeal 

For this ungrateful cause ; no, — I have heard 

My reverend Father tell that, 'mid the calm 

Of that small town encountering thus, they filled, 

Daily, its bowling-green with harmless strife ; 

Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the church ; 

And vexed the market-place. But in the breasts 

Of these opponents gradually was wrought, 

With little change of general sentiment, 

Such leaning towards each other, that their days 

By choice were spent in constant fellowship ; 

And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke, 

Those very bickerings made them love it more. 

A favorite boundary to their lengthened walks 
This Church-yard was. And, whether they had come 
Treading their path in sympathy and linked 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC, 213 

In social converse, or by some short space 

Discreetly parted to preserve the peace, 

One spirit seldom failed to extend its sway 

Over both minds, when they awhile had marked 

The visible quiet af tihis holy ground, 

And breathed its soothmg air ; — the spirit of hope 

And saintly magnanimity ; that — spurning 

The field of selfish difference and dispute. 

And every care which transitory things, 

Earth and the kingdoms of the earth, create — 

Doth, by a rapture of forgetfulness, 

Preclude forgiveness, from the praise debarred. 

Which else the Christian virtue might have claimed. 

There live who yet remember here to have seen 
Their courtly figures, seated on the stump 
Of an old yew, their favorite resting-place. 
But as the remnant of the long-lived tree 
Was disappearing by a swift decay, 
They, with joint care, determined to erect, 
Upon its site, a dial, that might stand 
For public use preserved, and thus survive 
As their own private monument : for this 
Was the particular spot, in which they wished 
(And Heaven was pleased to accomplish the desire) 
That, undivided, th'-ir remains should lie. 
So, where the moul lered tree had stood, was raised 
Yon structure, framing, with the ascent of steps 
That to the decorated pillar lead, 
A work of art more sumptuous than might seem 
To suit this place ; yet built in no proud scorn 
Of rustic homehness ; they only aimed 
To ensure for it respectful guardianship. 



214 THE EXCURSION. 

Around the margin of the plate, whereon 

The shadow falls to note the stealthy hours, 

Winds an inscriptive legend." — At these words 

Thither we turned ; and gathered, as we read, 

The appropriate sense, in Latin numbers couched: 

' Time flies ; it is his melancholy task 

To hring, and hear away, delusive hofes^ 

And re-produce tlie troubles he destroys. 

But, while his blindness thus is occupied, 

Discerning Mortal! do thou serve the will 

Of Time's eternal Master, and that peace 

Which the world wants, shall be for thee confirmed P 

^ " Smooth verse, inspired by no unlettered Muse," 
Exclaimed the Sceptic, " and the strain of thought 
Accords with nature's language ; — the soft voice 
Of yon white torrent falling down the rocks 
Speaks, less distinctly, to the same effect. 
If, then, their blended influence be not lost 
Upon our hearts, not wholly lost, I grant. 
Even upon mine, the more are we required 
To feel for those among our fellow-men. 
Who, offering no obeisance to the world, 
Are yet made desperate by ' too quick a sense 
Of constant infelicity,' cut off 
From peace like exiles on some barren rock. 
Their life's appointed prison ; not more free 
Than sentinels, between two armies, set. 
With nothing better, in the chill night air. 
Than their own thoughts to comfort them. Say why 
That ancient story of Prometheus chained 
To the bare rock, on frozen Caucasus ; 
The vulture, the inexhaustible repast 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 215 

Drawn from his vitals ? Say what meant the woes 
By Tantalus entailed upon his race, 
And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes ? 
Fictions in foi-m, but in their substance truths, 
Tremendous truths ! familiar to the men 
Of long-past times, nor obsolete in ours. 
Exchange the shepherd's frock of native grey 
For robes with regal purple tinged ; convert 
The crook into a sceptre ; give the pomp 
Of circumstance ; and here the tragic Muse 
Shall find apt subjects for her highest art. 
Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills, 
The generations are prepared ; the pangs, 
Tlie internal pangs, are ready ; the dread strife 
Of poor humanity's afflicted will . 

Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny." 

"Though," said the Priest in answer, "these be 
terms 
Wliich a divine philosophy rejects, 
We, whose established and unfailing trust 
Is in controlling Providence, admit 
That, tlirough all stations, human life abounds 
With mysteries ; — for, if Faith were left untried. 
How could the might, that lurks within her, then 
Be shown ? her glorious excellence — that ranks 
Among the first of Powers and Virtues — proved ? 
Our system is not fashioned to preclude 
That sympathy which you for others ask ; 
And I could tell, not travelling for my theme 
Beyond these humble graves, of grievous crimes 
And strange disasters ; but I pass them by. 
Loth to disturb what Heaven hath hushed in peace. 



216 THE EXCURSION. 

• — Still less, far less, am I inclined to treat 

Of Man degraded in his Maker's sight 

By the deformities of brutish vice : 

For, in such portraits, though a vulgar face 

And a coarse outside of repulsive life 

And unafFecting manners might at once 

Be recognised by all — " " Ah ! do not think," 

The Wanderer somewhat eagerly exclaimed, 

" Wish could be ours that you, for such poor gain, 

(Gain shall I call it? — gain of what? — for whom?) 

Should breathe a word tending to violate 

Your own pure spirit, Not a step we look for 

In slight of that forbearance and reserve 

Which common human-heartedness inspires. 

And mortal ignorance and frailty claim. 

Upon this sacred ground, if nowhere else." 

" True," said the Solitary, " be it far 
From us to infringe the laws of charity. 
Let judgment here in mercy be pronounced ; 
This, self-respecting Nature prompts, and this 
Wisdom enjoins ; but if the thing we seek 
Be genuine knowledge, bear we then in mind 
How, from his lofty throne, the sun can fling 
Colors as bright on exhalations bred 
By weedy pool or pestilential swamp, 
As, by the rivulet sparkling where it runs, 
Or tlie pellucid lake." 

" Small risk," said I, 
" Of such illusion do we here incur ; 
Temptation here is none to exceed the truth ; 
No evidence appears that they who rest 
Within this ground, were covetous of praise, 



THE CHURC H-YARD, ETC. 



217 



Or of remembrance even, deserved or not. 

Green is the Church-yai'd, beautiful and green, 

Ridge rising gently by the side of ridge, 

A heaving surface, almost wholly free 

From interruption of sepulchral stones. 

And mantled o'er with aboriginal turf 

And everlasting flowers. These Dalesmen trust 

The lingering gleam of their departed Mves 

To oral record, and the silent heart ; 

Depositories faithful and more kind 

Than fondest epitaph : for, if those fail. 

What boots the sculptured tomb? And who can 

blame. 
Who rather would not envy, men that feel 
This mutual confidence ; if, from such source, 
The practice flow, — if thence, or from a deep 
And general humility in death ? 
Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring 
From disregard of time's destructive power, 
As only capable to prey on things 
Of earth, and human nature's mortal part. 



Yet — in less simple districts, where we see 
Stone lift its forehead emulous of stone 
In courting notice ; and the ground all paved 
With commendations of departed worth ; 
Reading, where'er we turn, of innocent lives 
Of each domestic charity fulfilled. 
And sufferings meekly boi'ne — I, for my part, 
Though with the silence pleased that here prevails, 
Among those fair recitals also range, 
Soothed by the natural spirit which they breathe. 
And, in the centre of a world whose soil 
19 



218 THE EXCURSION. 

Is rank with all unkindness, compassed round 

With such memorials, I have sometimes felt, 

It was no momentary happiness 

To have- one Enclosure where the voice that speaks 

In envy or detraction is not heard ; 

Which malice may not enter ; where the traces 

Of evil inclinations are unknown ; 

Where love and pity tenderly unite 

With resignation ; and no jarring tone 

Intrudes, the peaceful concert to disturb 

Of amity and gratitude." 

" Thus sanctioned,** 
The Pastor said, " I willingly confine 
My narratives to subjects that excite 
Feelings with these accordant ; love, esteem. 
And admiration ; lifting up a veil, 
A sunbeam introducing among hearts 
Retired and covert ; so that ye shall have 
Clear images before your gladdened eyes 
Of nature's unambitious underwood. 
And flowers that prosper in the shade. And when 
I speak of such among my flock as swerved 
Or fell, those only shall be singled out 
Upon whose laps, or error, something more 
Than brotherly forgiveness may attend ; 
To such will we restrict our notice, else 
Better my tongue were mute. 

And yet there are, 
I feel, good reasons why we should not leave 
Wholly untraced a more forbidding way. 
For, strength to preserve and to support. 
And energy to conquer and repel — 
These elements of virtue, that declare 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC, 219 

The native grandeur of tlie human soul — 
Are oft-times not unprofitably shown 
In the perverseness of a selfish course : 
Truth every day exemplified, no less 
In the grey cottage by the murmuring stream 
Than in fantastic conqueror's roving camp. 
Or mid the factious senate unappaUed 
Whoe'er may sink, or rise — to sink again. 
As merciless proscription ebbs and flows. 

There," said the Viear, pointing as he spake, 
" A woman rests in peace ; surpassed by few 
In power of mind, and eloquent discourse. 
Tali was her stature ; her complexion dark 
And saturnine ; her head not raised to hold 
Converse with heaven, nor yet depressed towards 

earth. 
But in projection carried, as she walked 
For ever musing- Sunken were her eyes ; 
Wrinkled and furrowed with habitual thought 
Was her broad forehead ; like the brow of one 
Whose visual nerve shrinks from a painful glare 
Of overpow>ering light. — ^WhiJe yet a child. 
She, 'mid the humble flowerets of the vale. 
Towered like the imperial thistle, not unfurnished 
With its appropriate grace, yet rather seeking 
To be admired, than coveted and loved. 
Even at that age she ruled, a sovereign queen. 
Over her comrades ; else their simple sports. 
Wanting all reiish for her strenuous mind. 
Had crossed her only t© be shunned with scorn. 
— Oh ! pang of sorrowful regret for those 
Whom, in their youth, sweet study has enthralled. 



t-2Q THE EXCURSION. 

That fhey have lived for harsher servitude. 
Whether in soul, in body, or estate ! 
Such doom vras hers ; yet nothing could subdue 
Her keen desire of knowledge, nor efface 
Those brighter images by books imprest 
Upon her memory, faithfully as stars 
That occupy their places, and, though oft 
Hidden by clouds, and oft bedimmed by haze. 
Are not to be extinguished, nor impaired. 

Two passions, both degenerate, for they both 
Began in honor, gradually obtained 
Rule over her, and vexed her daily life ; 
An unremitting, avaricious thrift ; 
And a strange thraldom of maternal love. 
That held her spirit, in its own despite. 
Bound — by vexation, and regret, and scorn, 
Constrained forgiveness, and relenting vows. 
And tears, in pride suppressed, in shame concealed — 
To a poor dissolute Son, her only child. 
— Her wedded days had openfed with mishap. 
Whence dire dependence. What could she perform 
To shake the burthen off ? Ah ! there was felt. 
Indignantly, the weakness of her sex. 
She mused, resolved, adhered to her resolve ; 
The hand grew slack in alms-giving, the heart 
Closed by degi'ees to charity ; heaven's blessing 
Not seeking from that source, she placed her trust 
In ceaseless pains — and strictest parsimony 
Which sternly hoarded all that could be spared. 
From each day's need, out of each day's least gain. 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC, 231 

Thus all was re-established, and a pile 
Constructed, that sufficed for every end, 
Save the contentment of the builder's mind ; 
A mind by nature indisposed to aught 
So placid, so inactive, as content ; 
A mind intolerant of lasting peace, 
And cherishing the pang her heart deplored. 
Dread life of conflict ! which I oft compared 
To the agitation of a brook that runs 
Down a rocky mountain, buried now and lost 
In silent pools, now in strong eddies chained ; 
But never to be charmed to gentleness : 
Its best attainment fits of such repose 
As timid eyes might shrmk from fathoming. 

A sudden illness seized her in the strength 
Of life's autumnal season. — Shall I tell 
How on her bed of death the Matron lay, 
To Providence submissive, so she thought ; 
But fretted, vexed, and wrought upon, almost 
To anger, by the malady that griped 
Her prostrate frame with unrelaxing power, 
As the fierce eagle fastens on the lamb ? 
She prayed, she moaned; — her husband's sister 

watched 
Her dreary pillow, waited on her needs ; 
And yet the very sound of that kind foot 
Was anguish to her ears ! ' And must she rule,* 
This was the death-doomed Woman heard to say- 
In bitterness, ' and must she rule and reign, 

* Sole Mistress of this house, when I am gone ? 

• Tend what I tended, calling it her own !' 
Enough ! — I fear, too much. — One vernal evening, 

19* 



222 T H E E X C U R S I O N. 

While she was yet in prime of health and strength, 
I well remember, while I passed her door 
Alone, with loitering step, and upward eye 
Turned towards the planet Jupiter that hung 
Above the centre of the Vale, a voice 
Roused me, her voice ; it said, ' That glorious star 

* In its untroubled element will shine 

' As now it shines, when we are laid in earth 

* And safe from all our sorrows.' With a sigh 
She spake, yet, I believe, not unsustained 

By faith in glory that shall far transcend 

Aught by these perishable heavens disclosed 

To sight or naind. Nor less than care divine 

Is divine mercy. She, who had rebelled, 

Was into meekness softened and subdued ; 

Did, after trials not in vain prolonged, 

With resignation sink into the grave ; 

And her uncharitable acts, I trust. 

And harsh unkindnesses are all forgiven, 

Though in this Vale, remembered with deep awe." 



The Vicar paused ; and toward a seat advanced, 
A long stone seat, fixed in the Church-yard wall ; 
Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part 
Offering a sunny resting-place to them 
Who seek the House of worship, while the bells 
Yet ring with all their voices, or before 
The last hath ceased its solitary knell. 
Beneath the shade we all sate down ; and their 
His office, uninvited, he resumed. 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 223 

" As on a sunny bank, a tender lamb 
Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March, 
Screened by its parent, so that little mound 
Lies guarded by its neighbor ; the small heap 
Speaks for itself ; an Infant there doth rest ; 
The sheltering hillock is the Mother's grave. 
If mild discourse, and manners that conferred 
A natural dignity on humblest rank ; 
If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks. 
That for a face not beautiful did more 
Than beauty for the fairest face can do ; 
And if religious tenderness of heart, 
Grieving for sin, and penitential tears 
Shed when the clouds had gathered and distamed 
The spotless ether of a maiden life ; 
If these may make a hallowed spot of earth 
More holy in the sight of God or man ; 
Then, o'er that mould, a sanctity shall brood. 
Till the stars sicken at the day of doom. 

Ah ! what a warning for a thoughtless man. 
Could field or grove, could any spot of earth. 
Show to his eye an image of the pangs 
Which it hath witnessed ; render back an echo 
Of the sad steps by which it' hath been trod ! 
There, by her innocent Baby's precious grave. 
And on the very turf that roofs her own. 
The Mother oft was seen to stand, or kneel 
In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene. 
Now she is not ; the swelling turf reports 
Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's tears 
Is silent ; nor is any vestige left 
Of the path worn by mournful tread of her 



S24 THE EXCURSION. 

Who, at her heart's light bidding, once had moved 
In virgin fearlessness, with step that seemed 
Caught from the pressure of elastic turf 
tFpon the mountains gemmed with morning dew, 
In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs. 
— Serious and thoughtful was her mind ; and yet, 
By reconcilement exquisite and rare, 
The form, port, motions, of this Cottage-girl 
Were such as might have quickened and inspired 
A Titian's hand, addrest to picture forth 
Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade 
What time the hunter's earliest horn is heard 
Startling the golden hills. 

A wide-spread elm 
Stands in our valley, named The Joyful Tree ; 
From dateless usage which our peasants hold 
Of giving welcome to the first of May 
By dances round its trunk. — And if the sky 
Permit, like honors, dance and song, are paid 
To the Twelfth Night, beneath the frosty stars 
Or the clear moon. The queen of these gay sports. 
If not in beauty, yet in sprightly air, 
Was hapless Ellen. — No one touched the ground 
So deftly, and the nicest maiden's locks 
Less gracefully were braided ; — but this praise, 
Methinks would better suit another place. 

She loved, and fondly deemed herself beloved. 
—The road is dim, the current unperceived, 
The weakness painful and most pitiful. 
By which a virtuous woman, in pure youth, 
May be delivered to distress and shame. 
Such fate was hers. — The last time Ellen danced, 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 225 

Among her equals, round The Joyful Tree, 

She bore a secret burthen ; and full soon 

Was left to tremble for a breaking vow, — 

Then, to bewail a sternly-broken vow, 

Alone, within her widowed Mother's house. 

It was the season of unfolding leaves. 

Of days advancing toward their utmost length, 

And small birds singing happily to mates 

Happy as they. With spirit-saddening power 

Winds pipe through fading woods ; but those blithe 

notes 
Strike the deserted to the heart ; I speak 
Of what I know, and what we feel within. 
— Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt 
Stands a tall ash-tree ; to whose topmost twig 
A thrush resorts, and annually chants, 
At morn and evening from that naked perch, 
While all the undergrove is thick with leaves, 
A time-beguiling ditty, for delight 
Of his fond partner, silent in the nest. 
— ' Ah why,' said Ellen, sighing to herself, 

* Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge ; 

* And nature that is kind in woman's breast, 
' And reason that in man is wise and good, 

' And fear of him who is a righteous judge ; 

* Why do not these prevail for human life, 

* To keep two hearts together, that began 

* Their spring-time with one love, and that have need 
' Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet 

* To grant, or be received ; while that poor bird — 
' come and hear him ! Thou who hast to me 

' Been faithless, hear him, though a lovely creature, 
' One of God's simplest children that yet know not 



826 THE EXCURSION. 

' The universal Parent, how he sings 

' As if he wished the firmament of heaven 

* Should listen, and give back to him the voice 

* Of his triumphant constancy and love ; 

* The proclamation that he makes, how far 

* His darkness doth transcend our fickle light !* 

Such was the tender passage, not by me 
Repeated without loss of simple phrase. 
Which I perused, even as the words had been 
Committed by forsaken Ellen's hand 
To the blank margin of a Valentine, 
Bedropped with tears. 'T will please you to be told 
That, studiously withdrawing from the eye 
Of all companionship, the Sufferer yet 
In lonely reading found a meek resource : 
How thankful for the warmth of summer days, 
When she could slip into the cottage-barn. 
And find a secret oratory there ; 
Or, in the garden, under friendly veil 
Of their long twilight, pore upon her book 
By the last lingering help of the open sky 
Until dark night dismissed her to her bed ! 
Thus did a waking fancy sometimes lose 
The unconquerable pang of despised love. 

A kindlier passion opened on her soul 
When that poor Child was born. Upon its face 
She gazed as on a pure and spotless gift 
Of unexpected promise, where a grief 
Or dread was all that had been thought of, — joy 
Far livelier than bewildered traveller feels. 
Amid a perilous waste that all night long 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC, 227 

Hath harassed him toiling through fearful storm. 

When he beholds the first pale speck serene 

Of day-spring, in the gloomy east, revealed 

And greets it with thanksgiving. * Till this hour,' 

Thus, in her Mother's hearing Ellen spake, 

' There was a stony region in my heart ; 

' But he, at whose command the parched rock 

* Was smitten, and poured forth a quenching stream, 
' Hath softened that obduracy, and made 

' Unlooked-for gladness in the desert place, 

* To save the perishing ; and, henceforth, I breathe 

* The air with cheerful spirit, for thy sake 

' My Infant ! and for that good Mother dear, 

* Who bore me ; and hath prayed for me in vain ; — ■ 

* Yet not in vain ; it shall not be in vain,' 
She spake, nor was the assurance unfulfilled ; 
And if heart-rending thoughts would oft return, 
They stayed not long. — The blameless Infant grew ; 
The Child whom Ellen and her Mother loved 
They soon were proud of ; tended it and nursed ; 
A soothing comforter, although forlorn ; 

Like a poor singing-bird from distant lands ; 
Or a choice shrub, which he, who passes by 
With vacant mind, not seldom may observe 
Fair-flowering in a thinly-peopled house, 
Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adorns. 

Through four months' space the Infant drew its 

food 
From the maternal breast ; then scruples rose ; 
Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and 

crossed 
The fond affection. She no more could bear 



"irar'ialiiii iiii i- 



"~l 



228 THE EXCURSION. 

By her oflfence to lay a twofold weight 

On a kind parent willing to forget 

Their slender means ; so, to that parent's care 

Trusting her child, she left their common home, 

And undertook with dutiful content 

A Foster-mother's office. 

'T is, perchance. 
Unknown to you, that in these simple vales 
The natural feeling of equality 
Is by domestic service unimpahed ; 
Yet, though such service be, with us, removed 
From sense of degradation, not the less 
The ungentle mind can easily find means 
To impose severe restraints and laws unjust, 
Which hapless Ellen now was doomed to feel : 
For (blinded by an over-anxious dread 
Of such excitement and divided thought 
As with her office would but ill accord) 
The pair, whose infant she was bound to nurse. 
Forbad her all communion with her own : 
Week after week, the mandate they enforced. 
— So near ! yet not allowed, upon that sight 
To fix her eyes — alas ! 't was hard to bear ! 
But worse affliction must be borne — far worse; 
For 't is Heaven's will — that, after a disease 
Begun and ended within three days' space. 
Her child should die ; as Ellen now exclaimed. 
Her own — deserted child !— Once, only once, 
She saw it in that mortal malady ; 
And, on the burial-day, could scarcely gain 
Permission to attend its obsequies. 
She reached the house, last of the funeral train ; 
And some one, as she entered, having chanced 



THE CHURCH- YARD, ETC. 3'^9 

To urge unthinkingly their prompt departure, 

* Nay,' said she, with commanding look, a spirit 
Of anger never seen in her before, 

* Nay, you must wait my time !' and down she sate, 
And by the unclosed coffin kept her seat 
Weeping and looking, looking on and weeping, 
Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child, 

Until at length her soul was satisfied. 

You see the Infant's Grave ; and to this spot, 
The Mother, oft as she was sent abroad. 
On whatsoever errand, urged her steps : 
Hither she came ; here stood, and sometimes knelt 
In the broad day, a rueful Magdalene ! 
So call her ; for not only she bewailed 
A mother's loss, but mourned in bitterness 
Her own transgression ; penitent sincere 
As ever raised to heaven a streaming eye ! 
— At length the parents of the foster-child, 
Noting that in despite of their commands 
She still renewed and could not but renew 
Those visitations, ceased to send her forth ; 
Or, to the garden's narrow bounds, confined. 
I failed not to remind them that they erred ; 
For holy Nature might not thus be crossed. 
Thus wronged in woman's breast : in vain I pleaded— 
But the green stalk of Ellen's life was snapped. 
And the flower drooped ; as every eye could see. 
It hung its head in mortal languishment. 
-—Aided by this appearance, I at length 
Prevailed ; and, from those bonds released, she went 
Home to her mother's house. 



20 



230 THE EXCURSION. 

The Youth was fled ; 
The rash betrayer could not face the shame 
Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had caused ; 
And little would his presence, or proof given 
Of a relenting soul, have now availed ; 
For, like a shadow, he was passed away 
From Ellen's thoughts ; had perished to her mind 
S'or all concerns of fear, or hope, or love. 
Save only those which to their common shame. 
And to his moral being appertained : 
Hope from that quarter would, I know, have brought 
A heavenly comfort ; there she recognised 
An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need ; 
There, and, as seemed, there only. 

She had built. 
Her fond maternal heart had buUt, a nest 
In blindness all too near the river's edge ; 
That work a summer flood with hasty swell 
Had swept away ; and now her Spirit longed 
For its last flight to heaven's security, 
- — The bodily frame wasted from day to day ; 
Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares. 
Her mind she strictly tutored to find peace 
And pleasure in endurance. Much she thought. 
And much she read ; and brooded feelingly 
Upon her own unworthiness. To me. 
As to a spiritual comforter and friend. 
Her heart she opened ; and no pains were spared 
To mitigate, as gently as I could. 
The sting of self-reproach, with healing words. 
Meek Saint ! through patience glorified on earth 1 
In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate, 
The ghastly face of cold decay put on 






THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC 231 

A. suR-like beauty, and appeared divine ! 

May I not mention — that, within those walls. 

In due observance of her pious wish. 

The congregation joined with me in prayer 

For her soul's good ? Nor was that office vain. 

— Much did she suffer : but, if any friend. 

Beholding her condition, at the sight 

Gave way to words of pity or complaint, 

She stilled them with a prompt reproof, and said, 

* He who afflicts me knows what I can bear ; 

•* And, when I fail, and can endure no more, 

^ Will mercifully take me to himself.' 

So, through the cloud of death, her spirit passed 

Into that pure and unknown world of love 

Where injury cannot come : — and here is laid 

The mortal Body by her Infant's side." 

The Yiear ceased ; and downcast looks made known 
That each had listened with his inmost heart. 
For me, the emotion scarcely was less strong 
Or less benign than that which I had felt 
When seated near my venerable Friend, 
Under those shady elms, from him I heard 
The story that retraced the slow decline 
Of Margaret, sinking on the lonely heath 
With the neglected house to which she clung. 
< — I noted that the Solitary's cheek 
Confessed the power of nature. — Pleased though sad. 
More pleased than sad, the grey-haired Wanderer sate; 
Thanks to his pure imaginative soul 
Capacicus and serene- his blameless life, 
His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love 



232 THE EXCURSION. 

Of liiiraan kind ! He was it who first broke 
The pensive silence, saying : — 

" Blest are they 
Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong 
Than to do wrong, albeit themselves have erred. 
This tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deals 
With such, in their affliction. — Ellen's fate. 
Her tender spirit and her contrite heart. 
Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard 
Of one who died within this vale, by doom 
Heavier, as his offence was heavier far. 
Where, Sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones 
Of Wilfred Armathwaite ?" 

The Vicar answered, 
" In that green nook, close by the Church-yard wall. 
Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself 
In memory and for warning, and in sign 
Of sweetness where dire anguish had been known. 
Of reconcilement after deep offence — 
There doth he rest. No theme his fate supplies 
For the smooth glozings of the indulgent world ; 
Nor need the windings of his devious course 
Be here retraced ; enough that, by mishap 
And venial error, robbed of competence. 
And her obsequious shadow, peace of mind. 
He craved a substitute in troubled joy ; 
Against Ins conscience rose in arms, and, braving 
Divine displeasure, broke the marriage-vow. 
That which he had been weak enough to do 
Was misery in remembrance ; he was stung. 
Stung by his inward thoughts, and by the smiles 
Of wife and children stung to agony. 
Wretched at home, he gained no peace abroad , 



THE CHOROH^YASD, ETC. t3l 

Eauged through the mountains, slept upon the earth, 

Asked comfort of the open air, and foimd 

No quiet in tiie darkness of the night, 

Ho pleasure in the beauty of the day. 

His flocks he slighted^ his paternal fields 

Became a clog to him, whose spirit wished 

To tly— but whither! And this gracious Church, 

That wears a look so full of peace and hope 

And love, benignant mother of the vale, 

How fair amid her brood of cottages ! 

She was to him a sickness and reproach. 

Much to the last remained unknown : but this 

Is sure, that through remoi-se and grief he died; 

Though pitied among men, absolved by God, 

He could not find forgiveness in himself; 

Nor could endure the weight of bis own shame. 

Here rests a Mother^ But from her I tura 
And from her grave.— Behold— upon that ridge> 
That, stretching boldly from the mountain side. 
Carries into the centre of the vale 
Its rocks and woods — the Cottage where she dwelt l 
And where yet dwells her faithful Partner, left 
(Full eight years past) the solitary prop 
Of many helpless Childr^i. I begin 
With words that might be prelude to a tale 
Of sorrow and dejection; but I feel 
No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes 
See daily in that happy family. 
- — Bright garland form they for the pensive brow 
Of their undrooping Fatiter's widowliood. 
Those six fair Daughters, budding 3'^et — not one. 
Not one o( all the band, a full-blown flower, 
20* 



234 THEEXGUESION* 

Deprest, and desolate of soul, as once 

That Father was, and filled with anxious fear. 

Now, by experience taught, he stands assured. 

That God, who takes away, yet takes not half 

Of what he seems to take ; or gives it back, 

Not to our prayer, but far beyond our prayer ; 

He gives it — the boon produce of a soil 

Which our endeavors have refused to till, 

And hope hath never watered. The Abode, 

Whose grateful owner can attest these truths. 

Even were the object nearer to our sight, 

Would seem in no distinction to surpass 

The rudest habitations. Ye might think 

That it had sprung self-raised from earth, or grown 

Out of the living rock, to be adorned 

By nature only ; but, if thither led. 

Ye would discover, then, a studious work 

Of many fancies, prompting many hands. 

Brought from the woods the honeysuckle twines 
Around the porch, and seems, in that trim place, 
A plant no longer wild ; the cultured rose 
There blossoms, strong in health, and will be soon 
Eoof-high ; the wild pink crowns the garden-wall. 
And with the flowers are intermingled stones 
Sparry and bright, rough scatterings of the hills. 
These ornaments, that fade not with the year, 
A hardy Girl continues to provide ; 
Who, mounting fearlessly the rocky heights, 
Her Father's prompt attendant, does for him 
All that a boy could do, but with delight 
More keen and prouder daring ; yet hath she, 
Within the garden, like the rest, a bed 



THE CHURCH-YARD^ ETC. 235 

For her own flowers and favorite herbs, a space^ 

By sacred charter, holden for her use. 

— These, and whatever else the garden bears 

Of fruit or flower, permission asked or not, 

I freely gather ; and my leisure draws 

A not unfrequent pastime from the hum 

Of bees around their range of sheltered hives 

Busy in that enclosure ; while the rill, 

That sparkling thrids the rocks, attunes his voice 

To the pure course of human life which there 

Flows on in sohtude. But, when the gloom 

Of night is falling round ray steps, then most 

This Dwelling charms me ; often I stop short, 

(Who could refrain ?) and feed by stealth my sight 

With prospect of the company within, 

Laid open through the blazing window : — there 

I see the eldest Daughter at her wheel 

Spinning amain, as if to overtake 

The never-halting time ; or, in her turn. 

Teaching some Novice of the sisterhood 

That skill in this or other household work. 

Which, from her Father's honored hand, herself. 

While she was yet a little-one, had learned. 

Mild man ! he is not gay, but they are gay ; 

And the whole house seems filled with gaiety. 

— Thrice happy, then, the Mother may be deemed, 

The Wife, from whose consolatory grave 

I turned, that ye in mind might witness where. 

And how, her Spirit yet survives on earth 1"^ 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK SEVENTH. 



THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE 
MOUNTAINS. 



THE CHURCH- YARD AMONG THE 
MOUNTAINS, 



CONTINCBDd 



ARGUMENT. 

Impression of these Narratives upon the Author's mind. — Pastor invited 
to give account of certain Graves that lie apart.-^Clergyman and his 
Family. — Fortunate influence of change of situation. — Activity in ex- 
treme old age. — Another Clergyman, a character of resolute Virtue. — 
Lamentations over mis-directed applausei — Instance of less exalted 
excellence in a deaf man. — Elevated character of a blind man. — Re- 
flections upon Blindness. — Interrupted by a Peasant who passes — his 
animal cheerfulness and careless vivacity. — He occasions a dig'ression 
on the fall of beautiful and interesting Trees. — A female Infant's Grave. 
— Joy at her Birth. — Sorrow at her Departure. — A youthful Peasant — 
his patriotic enthusiasm and distinguished qualities — his untimely 
death. — Exultation of the Wanderer, as a patriot, in this Picture.— 
Solitary how affected. — Monument of a Knight. — Traditions concern- 
ing him. — Peroration of the Wanderer on the transitoriness of things 
and the revolutions of society.— Hints at his own past Calling. — 
Thanks the Pastor. 

"V^/'HILE thus from theme to theme the Historian 

passed. 
The words he uttered, and the scene that lay- 
Before our eyes, awakened in my mind 
Vivid remembrance of those long-past hours ; 
When, in the hollow of some shadowy vale, 
(What time the splendor of the setting sun 
Lay beautiful on Snowdon's sovereign brow, 
On Cader Idris, or huge Penmanmaur) 
A wandering Youth, I listened with delight 
239 



240 THE EXCURSION. 

To pastoral melody or warlike air, 

Drawn from the chords of the ancient British harp 

By some accomplished Master, while he sate 

Amid the quiet of the green recess, 

And there did inexhaustibly dispense 

An interchange of soft or solemn tunes. 

Tender or blithe ; now, as the varying mood 

Of his own spirit urged, — ^now, as a voice 

From youth or maiden, or some honored chief 

Of his compatriot villagers (that hung 

Around him, drinking in the impassioned notes 

Of the time-hallowed minstrelsy) required 

For their heart's ease or pleasure. Strains of power 

Were they, to seize and occupy the sense ; 

But to a higher mark than song can reach 

Rose this pure eloquence. And, when the stream 

Which overflowed the soul was passed away, 

A consciousness remained that it had left, 

Deposited upon the silent shore 

Of memory, images and precious thoughts. 

That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed. 

" These grassy heaps lie amicably close," 
Said I, " like surges heaving in the wind 
Along the surface of the mountain pool : 
Whence comes it, then, that yonder we behold 
Five graves, and only five, that rise together 
Unsociably sequestered, and encroaching 
On the smooth play-ground of the village-school !'* 

The Vicar answered, — " No disdainful pride 
In them who rest beneath, nor any course 
Of Strange or tragic accident, hath helped 



THJi; CHURCH -YARD, ETC, 241 

To place those hillocks m that lonely guise. 

— Once more look forth, and follow with your sight 

The length of road that from 3'^on mountain's base 

Through bare enclosures stretches, 'till its line 

Is lost within a little tuft of trees ; 

Then, reappearing in a moment, quits 

The cultui'ed fields ; and up the heathy waste, 

Momits, as you see, in mazes serpentine. 

Led towards an easy outlet of the vale. 

That little shady spot, that sylvan tuft, 

By which the road is hidden, also hides 

A cottage from our view ; though I discern 

(Ye scarcely can) amid its sheltered trees 

The smokeless chimney-top. — 

All unembowered 
And naked stood that lowly Parsonage 
(For such in truth it is, and appertains 
To a small Chapel in the vale beyond) 
When hither came its last Inhabitant. 
Rough and forbidding were the choicest roads 
By which our northern wilds could then be crossed 
And unto most of these secluded vales 
Was no access for wain, heavy or hght. 
So, at his dwelling-place the Priest arrived 
With store of household goods, in panniers slung 
On sturdy horses graced with jingling bells. 
And on the back of more ignoble beast ; 
That, with like burthen of effects most prized 
Or easiest carried, closed the motley train. 
Young was I then, a school -boy of eight years; 
But still, methinks, I see them as they passed 
In order, drawing toward their wished-for home. 
— Rocked by the motion of a trusty ass 
21 



242 THE EXCURSION, 

Two ruddy children bung, a well-poised freiglitj, 
Eacli in his basket nodding drowsily ; 
Their bonnets, I remember, wreathed with flowers. 
Which told it was the pleasant month of June ; 
And, close behind, the comely Matron rode, 
A woman of soft speech and gracious smile, 
And with a lady's mien.— From far they came. 
Even from Northumbrian hills ; yet theirs had been 
A meny journey, rich in pastime, cheered 
By music, prank, and laughter-stirring jest ; 
And freak put on, and arch word dropped — to swell 
The cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise 
That gathered round the slowly-moving train. 
— ' Whence do they come ? and what their errand 
charged ? 

* Belong they to the fortune-telling tribe 

* Who pitch their tents under the green- wood tree? 
' Or Strollers are they, furnished to enact 

*Fair Rosamond, and the Children of the Wood, 

' And, by that whiskered tabby's aid, set forth 

' The lucky venture of sage Whittington, 

' When the next village hears the show announced 

' By blast of trumpet ?' Plenteous was the growth 

Of such conjectures, overheard, or seen 

On many a staring countenance portrayed 

Of boor or burgher, as they marched along. 

And more than once their steadiness of face 

Was put to proof, and exercise supplied 

To their inventive humor, by stern looks. 

And questions in authoritative tone. 

From some staid guardian of the public peace. 

Checking the sober steed on which he rode. 

In his suspicious wisdom ; oftener still. 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC, 243 

By notic-e indirect, or blunt demand 

From traveller halting in his own despite, 

A simple curiosity to ease : 

01' which adventures, that beguiled and cheered 

Their grave migration, the boon pair would tell. 

With undiminished glee, in hoary age. 

A Priest he was by function ; but his course 
From his youth up, and high as manhood's noon, 
{The hour of life to which he then was brought) 
Had been irregular, I might say, wild ; 
By books unstudied, by his pastoral care 
Too little checked. An active, ardent mind ; 
A fancy pregnant with resource and scheme 
To cheat the sadness of a rainy day ; 
Hands apt for all ingenious arts and games ; 
A generous spirit, and a body strong 
To cope with stoutest champions of the bowl ; 
Had earned for him sure welcome, and the rights 
Of a prised visitant, in th« jolly hall 
Of country 'squire ; or at the statelier board 
Of duke or eari, from scenes of courtly pomp 
Withdrawn, — to wile away tlie summer hours 
In .oondesceasion among rural guests. 

With these high comrades he had revelled long. 
Frolicking industriously, a simple Clerk 
By hopes of coming patronage beguiled 
Till the heart sickened. So, each loftier aim 
Abandonij3g and ail his showy friends. 
For a life's stay (slender it was, but sure) 
He turned to this secluded chapelry ; 
Tbat had baen offered to hk doubtful choice 



244 T H E E X C UR S I O N . 

By an unthouglit-of patron. Bleak and ba,re 

They found the cottage, their allotted home ; 

Naked without, and rude within ; a spot 

With which the Cure not long' had been endowed: 

And far remote the chapel stood, — remote, 

And, from his DweUing, unapproachable, 

Save through a gap high in the hills, an opening 

Shadeless and shelterless, by driving showers 

Frequented, and beset with howling winds. 

Yet cause was none, whate'er regret might hang 

On his own mind, to quarrel with the choice 

Or the necessity that fixed him here ; 

Apart from old temptations, and constrained 

To punctual labor in his saered charge. 

See him a constant preacher to the poor I 

And visiting, though not with saintly zeal, 

Yet, when need was, with no reluctant will,. 

The sick in body, or distrest in mind ; 

And by as salutary change, compelled 

To rise from timely sleep, and meet the day 

With no engagement, in his thoughts, more proud 

Or splendid than his garden could afford. 

His fields, or mountains by the heath- eock ranged. 

Or the wild brooks ;. from which he naw returned 

Contented to partake the quiet meal 

Of his own board, where sat his gentle Mate 

And three fair Children, plentifully fed 

Though simply, from their little household farm i 

Nor wanted timely treat of fish or fowl 

By nature yielded to his practised hand ; — 

To help the small but certain comings-ia 

Of that spare benefice. Yet not the less 

Theirs was a hospitable board,, and theij-s 

A charitable door. 






THE 'CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 243 

So days and years 
Passed on 5— the inside of that rugged house 
Was trimmed and brightened by the Matron's c-are„ 
And gradually enriched with tilings -of pri€e> 
Which might be lacked for use or ornament. 
What, though no soft and eostly sofa there 
Insidiously stretched out its lazy length. 
And no vain mirror glittered upon the walls> 
Yet were the windows of the low abode 
By shutters weather-fended, which at once 
Eepeiled the storm and deadened its loud roar. 
There snow-white curtains hung in decent folds ; 
Tough moss, and long-enduring mountain plants, 
That creep along the ground with sinuous trail. 
Were nicely braided ; and composed a work 
Like Indian mats, that with a,ppropria,te grace 
Lay at the threshold and the inner <loors ; 
And a fair carpet, woven of homespun wool 
But tinctured daintily with florid hues, 
For seemliness and warmth, on festal days^ 
Covered the smooth blue slabs of mountain-stone 
With which the parlor-floor, in simplest guise 
Of pastoral homesteads, had been long inlaid. 

These pleasing works the Housewife's skill pro* 
duced : 
Meanwhile the unsedentary Master's hand 
Was busier with his task— -to rid, to plant. 
To rear for food, for shelter, and delight ; 
A thri\ijig covert ! And when wishes, formed 
In youth, and sanctioned by the riper mind, 
Restoi-ed me to my native valley, here 
To end my days ; well pleased was I to see 
21* 



246 THE EXCURSION, 

The once-bare cottage, on the mountain-side;^ 
Screen'd from assault of every bitter Hast ; 
While the dark shadows of the summer leaves 
Danced in the breeze, chequering its mossy roof. 
Time, which had thus afforded willing help 
To beautify with Nature's fairest growths 
This rustic tenement, had gently shed, 
Upon its Master's frame, a wintry grace ; 
The comeliness of unenfeebled age. 

But how conld I say, gently ? for he still 
Retained a flashing eye, a burning palm, 
A stirring foot, a head which beat at nights 
Upon its pillow with a thousand schemes. 
Few likings had he dropped, few pleasures lost ; 
Generous and charitable, prompt to serve ; 
And still his harsher passions kept their hold — 
Anger and indignation. Still he loved 
The sound of titled names, and talked in glee 
Of long-past banquetings with high-born friends : 
Then, from those lulling fits of vain delight 
Uproused by recollected injuiy, railed 
At their false ways disdainfully, — and oft 
In bitterness and with a threatening eye 
Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow. 
— Those transports, with staid looks of pure good- 
will. 
And with soft smile, his consort would reprove. 
She, far behind him in the race of years. 
Yet keeping her first mildness, was advanced 
Far nearer, in the habit of her soul. 
To that still region whither all are bound. 
Him might we liken to the setting sun 






THE CHURCH-YAED, ETC- 247 

As seen not seldom on some gusty da)^, 
StruQ-Qflincf and bold, and shining from the -west 
With an inconstant and unmellowed light ; 
She was a soft attendant cloud, that hung 
As if with wish to veil the restless orb ; 
From Avhich it did itself imbibe a ray 
Of pleasing lustre.— But no more of this ; 
I better love to sprinkle on the sod 
That now divides the pair, or rather say, 
That still unites them, praises, like heaven's dew, 
Without reserve descending upon both. 

Our very first in eminence of years 
This old Man stood, the patriarch of the Vale ! 
And, to his unmolested mansion, death 
Had never come, through space of forty years ; 
Sparing both old and young in that abode. 
Suddenly then they disappeared : not twice 
Had summer scorched the fields ; not twice had 
fallen 

On those high peaks, the first autumnal snow. 
Before the greedy visiting was closed, 
And the long-privileged house left empty — ^swept 
As by a plague. Yet no rapacious plague 
Had been among them ; all was gentle death. 
One after one, with intervals of peace. 
A happy consummation ! an accord 
Sweet, perfect, to be -wished for ! save that here 
Was something which to mortal sense might sound 
Like harshness, — that the old grey-headed Sire, 
The oldest, he was taken last, survived 
When the meek Partner of his age, his Sotty 



848 THE EXCURSION. 

His Daughter, and that late and high-prize 1 gift, 
His little smiling Grandchild, were no more. 

* All gone, all vanished ! he deprived and bare, 

* How will he face the remnant of his life ? 

' What will become of him ?' we said, and mused 
In sad conjectures — ' Shall we meet him now 

* Haunting with rod and line the craggy brooks ? 

* Or shall we overhear him, as we pass, 

* Striving to entertain the lonly hours 

' With music ?' (for he had not ceased to touch 
The harp or viol which himself had framed, 
For their sweet purposes, with perfect skill.) 

* What titles will he keep ? will he remain 

* Musician, gai-dener, builder, mechanist, 
' A planter, and a rearer from the seed ? 

* A man of hope and forward-looking mind 

' Even to the last !' — -Such was he, unsubdued. 

But Heaven was gracious ; yet a little while. 

And this Survivor, with his cheerful throng 

Of open projects, and his inward hoard 

Of unsunned griefs, too many and too keen, 

Was overcome by unexpected sleep, 

In one blest moment. Like a shadow thrown 

Softly and lightly from a passing cloud, 

Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay 

For noontide solace on the summer grass. 

The warm lap of his mother earth : and so, 

Their lenient term of separation past, 

That family (whose graves you there behold) 

By yet a higher privilege once more 

Were gathered to each other." 



THE CHURCH-YAKD, ETC. 249 

Calm of mind 
And silence waited on these closing words ; 
Until the Wanderer (whether moved by fear 
Lest in those passages of life were some 
That might have touched the sick heart of his Friend 
Too nearly, or intent to reinforce 
His own firm spirit in degree deprest 
By tender sorrow for our mortal state) 
Thus silence broke : — " Behold a thoughtless Man 
From vice and premature decay preserved 
By useful habits, to a fitter soil 
Transplanted ere too late. — The hermit, lodged 
Amid the untrodden desert, tells his beads, 
With each repeating its allotted prayer, 
And thus divides and thus relieves the time ; 
Smooth task, with his compared, whose mind could 

string, 
Not scantily, bright minutes on the thread 
Of keen domestic anguish ; and beguile 
A solitude, unchosen, unprofessed ; 
Till gentlest death released him. 

Far from us 
Be the desire — too curiously to ask 
How much of this is but the blind result 
Of cordial spirits and vital temperament. 
And what to higher powers is justly due. 
But you. Sir, know that in a neighboring vale 
A Priest abides before whose life such doubts 
Fall to the ground ; whose gifts of nature lie 
Retired from notice, lost in attributes 
Of reason, honorably effaced by debts 
Which her poor treasure-house is content to owe. 
And conquests over her dominion gained. 



250 THE EXCURSION 

To whicli lier forwardness must needs submit. 

In this one Man is shown a temperance — proof 

Against all trials ; industry severe 

And constant as the motion of the day ; 

Stern self-denial round him spread, with shade 

That might be deemed forbidding, did not there 

All generous feelings flourish and rejoice ; 

Forbearance, charity in deed and thought. 

And resolution competent to take 

Out of the bosom of simplicity 

All that her holy customs recommend, 

And the best ages of the world prescribe. 

— ^Preaching, administering, in every work 

Of his sublime vocation, in the walks 

Of worldly intercourse between man and man, 

And in his humble dwelling, he appears 

A laborer, with moral virtue girt, 

With spiritual graces, like a glory, crowned." 

" Doubt can be none," the Pastor said, " for whom 
This portraiture is sketched. The great, the good. 
The well-beloved, the fortunate, the wise, — 
These titles emperors and chiefs have borne. 
Honor assumed or given : and him, the Wonderful, 
Our simple shepherds, speaking from the heart. 
Deservedly have styled. — From his abode 
In a dependent chapelry that lies 
Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild, 
Which in his soul he lovingly embraced. 
And, having once espoused, would never quit ; 
Into its graveyard will ere long be borne 
That lowly, great, good Man. A simple stone 
May cover him ; and by its help, perchance. 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 251 

A century shall hear his name pronounced, 

With images attendant on the sound ; 

Then, shall the slowly-gathering twilight close 

In utter night ; and of his course remain 

No cognizable vestiges, no more 

Than of this breath, which shapes itself in words 

To speak of him, and instantly dissolves." 

The Pastor pressed by thoughts which round his 
theme 
Still linger'd, after a brief pause, resumed ; 
" Noise is there not enough in doleful war, 
But that the heaven-born poet must stand forth, 
And lend the echoes of his sacred shell. 
To multiply and aggravate the din ? 
Pangs are there not enough in hopeless love — 
And, in requited passion, all too much 
Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear — 
But that the minstrel of the rural shade 
Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse 
The perturbation in the suffering breast. 
And propagate its kind, far as he may ? 
— Ah who (and with such rapture as befits 
The hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate 
The good man's purposes and deeds ; retrace 
His struggles, his discomfitures deplore. 
His triumphs hail, and glorify his end ; 
That virtue, like the fumes and vapoury clouds 
Through fancy's heat redounding in the brain. 
And like the soft infections of the heart. 
By charm of measured words may spread o'er field, 
Hamlet, and town ; and piety survive 
Upon the lips of men in hall or bower ; 



252 THE EXCURSION. 

Not for reproof, but liigh and warm delight 

And grave encouragement, by song inspired ? 

— Vain thought ! but wherefore murmur or repine ? 

The memory of the just survives in heaven : 

And, without sorrow, will the ground receive 

That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best 

Of what lies hei'e confines us to degrees 

In excellence less difficult to reach, 

And milder worth : nor need we travel far 

From those to whom our last regards were paid, 

For such example. 

Almost at the root 
Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare 
And slender stem, while here I sit at eve, 
Oft stretches toward me, like a long straight path 
Traced faintly in the greensward ; there, beneath 
A plain blue stone, a gentle Dalesman lies, 
From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn 
The precious gift of hearing. He grew up 
From year to year in loneliness of soul ; 
And this deep mountain- valley was to him 
Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn 
Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep 
With starthng summons ; not for his delight 
The vernal cuckoo shouted : not for him 
Murmm-ed the laboring bee. When stormy winds 
Were working the broad bosom of the lake 
Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves, 
Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud 
Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags. 
The tigitated scene before his eye 
Was silent as a picture : evermore 
Were all things silent, whereso'er he moved. 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 253 

Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts 

Upheld, he duteously pursued the round 

Of rural labors ; the steep mountain-side 

Ascended, with his staff and faithful dog ; 

The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed ; 

And the ripe corn before liis sickle fell 

Among the jocund reapers. For himself, 

All watchful and industrious as he was, 

He wrought not ; neither field nor flock he owned ; 

No wish for wealth had place within his mind ; 

Nor husband's love, nor father's hope or care. 

Though born a younger brother, need was none 
That from the floor of liis paternal home 
He should depart, to plant himself anew 
And when, mature in manhood, he beheld 
His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued 
Of rights to him ; but he remained well pleased, 
By the pure bond of independent love, 
An inmate of a second family ; 
The'fellow-laborer and friend of him 
To whom the small inheritance had fallen. 
— Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight 
That pressed upon his brother's house ; for books 
Were ready comrades whom he could not tire ; 
Of whose society the blameless Man 
Was never satiate. Their familiar voice, 
Even to old age, with unabated charm. 
Beguiled his leisure hours ; i-efreshed his thoughts ; 
Beyond its natural elevation raised 
His introverted spirit ; and bestowed 
Upon his life an outward dignity 
Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night, 
22 



254 THE EXCURSION. 

The stormy day, each had its own resource 5 

Song of the muses, sage historic tale, 

Science severe, or word of holy Writ 

Announcing immortality and joy 

To the assembled spirits of just men 

Made perfect, and from injury secure. 

— Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field. 

To no perverse suspicion he gave way, 

No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint ; 

And they, who were about him, did not fail 

In reverence, or in courtesy ; Ihey prized 

His gentle manners : and his peaceful smiles. 

The gleams of his slow- varying countenance. 

Were met with answering sympathy and love. 

At length, when sixty years and five were told, 
A slow disease insensibly consumed 
The powers of nature ; and a few short steps 
Of friends and kindred bore him from his home 
(Yon cottage shaded by the woody crags) 
To the profounder stillness of the grave. 
— Nor was his funeral denied the grace 
Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief ; 
Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude 
And now that monumental stone preserves 
His name, and unambitiously relates 
How long, and by what kindly outward aids. 
And in what pure contentedness of mind. 
The sad privation was by him endured. 
— And yon tall pine-tree,' whose composing sound 
Was wasted on the good Man's hving ear. 
Hath now its own peculiar sanctity ; 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 255 

And, at th-e touch of every wandering breeze, 
Murmm-s, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave. 

Soul-cheering Light, most bountiful of things ! 
Guide of our way, mysterious comforter ! 
"Whose saered influence, spread through earth and 

heaven. 
We all too thanklessly participate, 
Thy gifts were utterly withheld from him 
Whose place of rest is near yon ivied porch. 
Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complained ; 
Ask of the channelled rivers if thej^ held 
A safer, easier, more determined, course. 
What terror doth it strike into the mind 
To think of one, blind and alone, advancing 
Straight toward some precipice's airy brink ! 
But, timely warned, He would have stayed his stepsy 
Protected, say enlightened, by his ear; 
And on the very edge of vacancy 
Not more endangered than a man whose eye 
Beholds the gulf beneath. — No floweret blooms 
Throughout the lofty range of these rough hills. 
Nor in the woods, that could from him conceal 
Its birth-place ; none: whose figure did not live 
Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth 
Enriched with knowledge his industrious mind ; 
The ocean paid him tribute from the stores 
Lodged in her bosom ; and, by science led, 
His genius mounted to the plains of heaven, 
— Methinks I see him — how his eye-balls rolled, 
BeneatJi his ample brow, in darkness paired, — 
But each instinct with spirit ; and the frame 
Of the whole countenance alive with, thought, 



256 THE EXCURSION 

Fancy, and understanding ; while the voice 
Discoursed of natural or moral truth 
With eloquence, and such authentic power,^ 
That, in his presense, humbler knowledge stood 
Abashed, and tender pity overawed." 

" A noble — and, to unreflecting minds, 
A marvellous spectacle," the Wanderer said, 
" Beings like these present ! But proof abounds 
Upon the earth that faculties, which seem 
Extinguished, do not, therefore, cease to be. 
And to the mind among her powers of sense 
This transfer is permitted, — not alone 
That the bereft their recompense may win ; 
But for remoter purposes of love 
And charity ; nor las.t nor least for this,, 
That to the imagination may be given 
A type and shadow of an awful truth ; 
How, likewise, under sufferance divine, 
.Darkness is banished from the realms of deaths 
By man's imperishable spirit, quelled. 
Unto the men who see not as we see 
Futurity was thought, in ancient times. 
To be laid open, and they prophesied. 
And know we not that from the blind have flowed 
The highest, holiest, raptures of the lyre ; 
And wisdom married to immortal verse ?" 

Among the humbler Worthies, at our feet 
Lying insensible to human praise. 
Love, or regret, — whose lineaments would next 
Have been portrayed, I guess not ; but it chanced 
That, near the quiet church-yavd where we sate. 



» 


.,,...iu,^-_.^...^^..^^5»»,»..»,...»,»a;»,«^..,..v,^-.,n^.,,,,^,r<-»^ „',„^,.„ , , „i,i,r . 




; THE GHURCH-YARD, ETC. 257 




' A team of horses, v/itli a pondei-ous freight 




PressiRg behind, adown a rugged slope, 




\ Whose sharp descent c-onfoimded their array, 




Came at that moment, ringing noisily. 




i " Here," said the Pastor, " do we muse, and moura 




The waste of death ; and lo ! the giant oak 


1 


' Stretched on his bier— that massy timber wain ; 




Nor fail to note the Man who guides the team." 




He was a peasant of the lowest class : 




Grey locks profusely round his temples hung 




In clustering curls, like ivy, which the bite 


_ 


Of winter cannot thin ; the fresh air lodged 




Within his cheek, as light within a cloud ; 




And he returned our greeting with a smile. 




When he had passed, the Solitary spake : 




" A Man he seems of cheerful yesterdays 




And. confident to-morrows ; with a face 




Not worldly-minded, for it bears too much 




Of Nature's impress, — gaiety and health, 




Freedom and hope ; but keen, withal, and shrewd. 




His gestures note, — and hark ! his tones of voice 




Are all vivacious as his mien and looks." 




The Pastor answered. " You have read him well. 




Year after year is added to his store 




With silent increase : summers, winters — past, 




Past or to come ; yea, boldly might I say, 




Ten summers and ten winters of a space 




That lies beyond life's ordinary bounds, 




Upon his sprightly vigour cannot fix 




• The obligation of an anxious mind, 




22* 


— 





258 T H E E X C UR S I O N 

A pride in having, or a fear to lose ; 

Possessed like outskirts of some large domain^ 

By any one more thought of than by him 

"Who holds the land in fee, its careless lord ! 

Yet is the ereature rational, endowed 

With foresight ; hears, too, every Sabbath day. 

The Christian promise with attentive ear ; 

Nor will, I trust, the Majesty of Heaven 

Reject the incense offered up by him. 

Though of the kind which beasts and birds present 

In grove or pasture ; cheerfulness of soul, 

From trepidation and repining free. 

How many scrupulous worshippers fall down 

Upon their knees, and daily homage pay 

Less worthy, less religious even, than his ! 

This quahfied respect, the old Man's due, 
Is paid without reluctance ; but in truth," 
(Said the good Vicar with a fond half-smile), 
" I feel at times a motion of despite 
Towards one, whose bold contrivances and skill. 
As you have seen, bear such conspicuous part 
In works of havoc ; taking from these vales. 
One after one, their proudest ornaments. 
Full oft his doings leave me to deplore 
Tall ash-tree, sown by winds, by vapours mirsed. 
In the dry crannies of the pendent rocks ; 
Light birch, aloft upon the horizon's edge, 
A veil of glory for the ascending moon ; 
And oak whose roots by noontide dew were damped. 
And on whose forehead inaccessible 
The raven lodged in safety. — Many a ship 
Launched into Morecamb-bay, to him hath owed 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 25S 

Her strong knee4imbers, and the mast that bears 
The loftiest of laer pendants ; He, from park 
Or forest, fetched the enormous axle-tree 
That whirls (how slow itself !) ten thousand spindles I 
And the vast engine laboring in the mine. 
Content with meaner prowess, must have lacked 
The trunk and body of its marvellous strength. 
If his undaunted enterprise had failed 
Among the mountain coves. 

Yon household fir^ 
A guardian planted to fence olF the blast, 
But towering high the roof above, as if 
Its humble destination were forgot — - 
That sycamore, which annually holds 
Within its shade, as in a stately tent 
On all sides open to the fanning breeze,^* 
A grave assemblage, seated while they shear 
The fleece-encumbered flock — the Joyful Elm, 
Around whose trunk the maidens dance in May — 
And the Lord's Oak — would plead their several rights 
In vain, if he were master of their fate; 
His sentence to the axe would doom them all. 
But, green in age, and lusty as he is, 
And promising to keep his hold on earth 
Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men 
Than with the forest's more enduring growth. 
His own appointed hour will come at last ; 
And, like the haughty Spoilers of the world, 
This keen Destroyer, in his turn, must fall. 

Now from the living pass we once again : 
From Age," the Priest continued, " turn yoiir 
thoughts ; 



660 THE EXCURSION. 

From Age, that often tinlainented drops 

And marks with daisied hillock, three spans long ! 

— Seven lusty Sons sate daily round the board 

Of Gold-rill side ; and, when the hope had ceased 

Of other progeny, a Daughter then 

Was given, the crowning bounty of the whole ; 

And so acknowledged with a tremulous joy 

Felt to the centre of that heavenly calm 

With which by nature every mother's soul 

Is stricken in the moment when her throes 

Are ended, and her ears have heard the cry 

Which tells her that a liviag child is born : 

And she lies conscious, in a blissful rest. 

That the dread storm is weathered by them both. 

The Father — him at this unlooked-for gift 
A bolder transport seizes. From the side 
Of his bright hea,rth, and from his open door, 
Day after day the gladness is diffused 
To all that come, almost to all that pass ; 
Invited, summoned, to partake the cheer 
Spread on the never-empty board, and drink 
Health and good wishes to his new-born girl ; 
From cups replenished by his joyous hand. 
— Those seven fair brothers variously were moved 
Each by the thoughts best suited to his years : 
But most of all, and with most thankful mind 
The hoary grandsire felt himself enriched ; 
A happiness that ebbed not, but remained 
To fill the total measure of his soul ! 
—From the low tenement, his own abode, 
Whither, as to a little private cell, 
He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and noise, 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETO 261 

To spend the sabbath of old age in pea-ce, 
Once every day he duteously repahed 
To rock the cradle of the slumbering babe : 
For in that female infant's name he heard 
The silent name of his departed wife ; 
Heart-stirring music ! hourly heard that name ; 
Full blest he was, ' Another Margaret Green,' 
Oft did he say, ' was come to Gold-rill side.' 

Oh ! pang \mthought of, as the precious boon 
Itself had been unlooked-for ; oh ! dire stroke 
Of desolating anguish for them all ! 
— Just as the Child could totter on the floor, 
And, by some friendly finger's help unstayed, 
Eange round the garden walk, while she perchance 
Was catching at some novelty of spring, 
Ground-fiower, or glossy insect from its cell 
Drawn by the sunshine — at that hopeful season 
The winds of March, smiting insidiously, 
Raised in the tender passage of the throat 
Viewless obstruction ; whence, all unforewarned, 
The household lost their pride and souls' delight. 
— But time hath power to soften all regrets. 
And prayer and thought can bring to worst distress 
Due resignation. Therefore, though some tears 
Fail not to spring from either Parent's eye 
Oft as they hear of sorrow hke their own. 
Yet this departed Little-one, too long 
The innocent troubler of their quiet, sleeps 
In what may now be called a peaceful bed. 

On a bright day — so calm and bright it seemed 
To us, with our sad spirits, heavenly -fair — 



262 ■ THE EXCURSION. 

These mountains eclioed to an unknown sound ; 
A volley, thrice repeated o'er the Corse 
Let down into the hollow of that grave, 
Whose shelving sides are red with naked mould. 
Ye rains of April, duly wet this earth ! 
Spare, burning sun of midsummer, these sods. 
That they may knit together, and therewith 
Our thoughts unite in kindred quietness ! 
Nor so the Valley shall forget her loss. 
Dear Youth, by young and old alike beloved, 
To me as precious as my own ! — Green herbs 
May creep (I wish that they would softly creep) 
Over thy last abode, and we may pass 
Reminded less imperiously of thee ; — 
The ridge itself may sink into the breast 
Of earth, the great abyss, and be no more ; 
Yet shall not thy remembrance leave our hearts, 
Thy image disappear ! 

The Mountain-ash 
"No eye can overlook, when 'mid a grove 
Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head 
Decked with autumnal berries, that outshine 
Spring's richest blossoms ; and ye may have marked, 
By a brook-side or solitary tarn. 
How she her station doth adorn : the pool 
Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks 
Are brightened round her. In his native vale 
Such and so glorious did this Youth appear ; 
A. sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts 
By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam 
Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow, 
By all the graces with which nature's hand 
Had lavishly arrayed him. As old bards 



THE CHURCH-YAKD, ETC. 263 

Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods, 

Pan or Apollo, veiled in liuman form : 

Yet, like the sweet-breathed violet of the shade 

Discovered in their own despite to sense 

Of mortals (if such fables without blame 

May find chance-mention on this sacred ground) 

So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise, 

And through the impediment of rural cares, 

In him revealed a scholar's genius shone ; 

And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight, 

In him the spirit of a hero walked 

Our unpretending valley. — How the quoit 

Whizzed from the Stripling's arm ! If touched by 

him, 
The inglorious foot-ball mounted to the pitch 
Of the lark's flight, — or shaped a rainbow curve, 
Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field ! 
The indefatigable fox had learned 
To dread his perseverance in the chase. 
With admiration would he lift his eyes 
To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand 
Was loth to assault the majesty he loved : 
Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak 
To guard the royal brood. The sailing glead, 
The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe. 
The sportive sea-gull dancing with the waves. 
And cautious water-fowl, from distant climes. 
Fixed at their seat, the centre of the Mere, 
Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim. 
And hved by his forbearance. 

From the coast 
Of France a boastful Tyrant hurled his threats ; 
Oiu- Country marked the preparation vast 



264 THE EXCURSION 

Of hostile forces ; and she called — with voice 

That filled her plains, that reached her utmost shores, 

And in remotest vales vras heard — to arms ! 

- — Then, for the first time, here you might have seen 

The shepherd's grey to martial scarlet changed. 

That flaslied uncouthly through the vf oods and fields. 

Ten hardy Striplings, all in bright attire, 

And graced with shining weapons, weekly marched, 

From this lone valley, to a central spot 

Where, in assemblage with the flower and choice 

Of the surrounding district, they might learn 

The rudiments of war ; ten — hardy, strong, 

And valiant ; but young Oswald, like a chief 

And yet a modest comrade, led them forth 

From their shy solitude, to face the world, 

With a gay confidence and seemly pride ; 

Measuring the soil beneath their happy feet 

Like Youths released from labor, and yet bound 

To most laborious service, though to them 

A festival of unincumbered ease ; 

The inner spirit keeping holiday, 

Like vernal ground to sabbath sunshine left. 

Oft have I marked him, at some leisure hour, 
Stretched on the grass, or seated in the shade, 
Among his fellows, while an ample map 
Before their eyes lay carefully outspread. 
From which the gallant teacher would discourse, 
Now pointing this way and now that. — ' Here flows,' 
Thus would he say, * The Rhine, that famous stream I 
' Eastward, the Danube toward this inland sea, 

* A mightier river, winds from realm, to realm ; 

* And, like a serpent, shows his glittering back 



THE CHUKCH-YARD, ETC. 265 

* Bespotted — with iimumerable isles : 

' Here reigns the Russian, there the Turk ; observe 

* His capital city !' Thence, along a tract 
Of livelier interest to his hopes and fears. 
His finger moved, distinguishing the spots 

Where wide-spread conflict then most fiercely raged ; 

Nor left unstigmatized those fatal fields 

On which the sons of mighty Germany 

Were taught a base submission. — ' Here behold 

* A nobler race, the Switzers, and their land, 

' Vales deeper far than these of ours, huge woods, 

* And mountains white with everlasting snow !' 

— And, surely, he, that spake with kindling brow. 
Was a true patriot, hopeful as the best 
Of that young peasantry, who, in our days. 
Have fought and perished for Helvetia's rights — 
Ah, not in vain ! — or those who, in old time, 
For work of happier issue, to the side 
Of Tell came trooping from a thousand huts, 
When he had risen alone ! No braver Youth 
Descended from Judean heights, to march 
With righteous Joshua ; nor appeared in arms 
When grove was felled, and altar was cast down, 
And Gideon blew the trumpet, soul-inflamed. 
And strong in hatred of idolatry." 

The Pastor, even as if by these last words 
Raised from his seat within the chosen shade. 
Moved toward the grave ; — instinctively his steps 
We followed ; and my voice with joy exclaimed : 
" Power to the Oppressors of the world is given, 
A might of which they dream not. Oh ! the curse. 
To be the awakener of divinest thoughts, 
23 



266 THE EXCURSION. 

Father and founder of exalted deeds ; 
And, to whole nations bound in servile straits. 
The liberal donor of capacities 
More than heroic ! this to be, nor yet 
Have sense of one connatural wish, nor yet 
Deserve the least return of human thanks ; 
Winning no recompense but deadly hate 
With pity mixed, astonishment with scorn !" 

When this involuntary strain had ceased. 
The Pastor said : " So Providence is served ; 
The forked weapon of the skies can send 
Illumination into deep, dark holds, 
W^hich the mild sunbeam hath not power to pierce. 
Ye Thrones that have defied remorse, and cast 
Pity away, soon shall ye quake with /ear/ 
For, not unconscious of the mighty debt 
Which to outrageous wrong the sufferer owes, 
Europe, through all her habitable bounds. 
Is thirsting for their overthrow, who yet 
Sur\five, as pagan temples stood of yore. 
By horror of their impious rites, preserved ; 
Are still permitted to extend their pride. 
Like cedars on the top of Lebanon 
Darkening the sun. 

But less impatient thoughts. 
And love ' all hoping and expecting all,' 
This hallowed grave demands, where rests in peace 
\ humble champion of the better cause ; 
A Peasant-youth, so call him, for he asked 
!No higher name ; in whom our country showed. 
As in a favorite son, most beautiful. 
In spite of vice, and misery, and disease, 



THE CHURGH-YARD, ETC. 267 

Spread with the spreading of her wealthy arts, 
England, the ancient and the free, appeared 
In him to stand before my swimming eyes, 
Unconquerably virtuous and secure. 
— No more of this, lest I offend his dust: 
Short was his life, and a brief tale remains. 

One day— a sumnier's day of annual pomp 
And solemn chase — from morn to sultry noon 
His steps had followed, fleetest of the fleet, 
The red-deer driven along its native heights 
With cry of hound and horn ; and, from that toil 
Returned with sinews weakened and relaxed. 
This generous Youth, too negligent of self. 
Plunged — 'mid a gay and busy throng convened 
To wash the fleeces of his Father's flock — 
Into the chilling flood. Convulsions dire 
Seized him, that self-same night ; and through the 

space 
Of twelve ensuing days his frame was wrenched, 
Till nature rested from her work in death. 
To him, thus snatched away, his comrades paid 
A soldier's honors. At his funeral hour 
Bright was the sun, the sky a cloudless blue — 
A golden lustre slept upon the hills ; 
And if by chance a stranger, wandering there, 
From some commanding eminence had looked 
Down on this spot, well pleased would he have seen 
A glittering spectacle; but every face 
Was pallid : seldom hath that eye been moist 
With tears, that wept not then ; nor were the few. 
Who from their dwellings came not forth to join 
In this sad .service, less disturbed thnn we. 



268 THE EXCURSION. 

They started at the tributary peal 
Of instantaneous thunder, which announced. 
Through the still air, the closing of the Grave y 
And distant mountains echoed with a sound 
Of lamentation, never heard before !" 

The Pastor ceased. — My venerable Friend, 
Victoriously upraised his clear bright eye ; 
And, when that eulogy was ended, stood 
Enrapt, as if his inward sense perceived 
The prolongation of some still response. 
Sent by the ancient Soul of this wide land. 
The Spirit of its mountains and its seas, 
Its cities, temples, fields, its awful power,. 
Its rights and virtues — ^by that Deity 
Descending, and supporting his pure heart 
With patriotic confidence and joy. 
And, at the last of those memorial words. 
The pining Solitary turned aside ; 
Whether through manly instinct to conceal 
Tender emotions spreading from the heart 
To his worn cheek ; or with uneasy shame 
For those cold humors of habitual spleen 
That, fondly seeking in dispraise of man 
Solace and self-excuse, had sometimes urged 
To self-abuse a not ineloquent tongue, 
— Right toward the sacred Edifice his steps, 
Had been directed ; and we saw him now 
Intent upon a monumental stone. 
Whose uncouth form was grafted on the wall. 
Or rather seemed to have grown into the side 
Of the rude pile ; as oft-times trunks of trees^ 
Where nature works in wild and craggy spots> 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC, 269 

Are seen incorporate with the living rock — 
To endure for aye. The Vicar, taking note 
Of his employment, with a courteous smile 
Exclaimed. — 

" The sagest Antiquarian's eye 
That task would foil ;" then, letting fall his voice 
While he advanced, thus spake : " Tradition tells 
That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight 
Came on a war-horse sumptuously attired, 
And fixed his home in this sequestered vale. 
'T is left untold if here he first drew breath. 
Or as a stranger reached this deep recess, 
UnknoAving and unknown. A pleasing thought 
I sometimes entertain, that haply bound 
To Scotland's court in service of his Queen, 
Or sent on mission to some northern Chief 
Of England's realm, this valie he might have seen 
With transient observation ; and thence caught 
An iraagfe fair, which, bricfhteninof in his soul 
When joy of war and pride of chivalry 
Languished beneath accumulated years. 
Had power to draw him from the world, resolved 
To make that paradise his chosen home 
To which his peaceful fancy oft had turned. 

Vague thoughts are these ; but, if belief may rest 
Upon unwritten story fondly traced 
From sire to son, in this obscure retreat 
The Knight arrived, with spear and shield, and borne 
Upon a Charger gorgeously bedecked 
With broidered housings. And the lofty Steed — 
His sole companion, and his faithful friend. 
Whom he, in gratitude, let loose to range 
23* 



270 THE EXCURSION, 

In fertile pastures— ^was beheld with eyes 

Of admiration and delightful awe, 

By those untravelled Dalesmen, With less pride. 

Yet free from totich of envious discontent. 

They saw a mansion at his bidding rise, 

Like a bright star, amid the lowly band 

Of their rude homesteads. Here the Warrior dwelt ; 

And, in that mansion, children of his own. 

Or kindred, gathered round him. As a tree 

That falls and disappears, the house is gone ; 

And, through improvidence or want of love 

For ancient worth and honorable things, 

The spear and shield are vanished, which the Knight 

Hung in his rustic hall. One ivied arch 

Myself have seen, a gateway, last remains 

Of that foundation in domestic care 

Raised by his hands. And now no trace is left 

Of the mild-hearted Champion, save this stone, 

Faithless memorial ! and his family name 

Borne by yon clustering cottages, that sprang 

From out the ruins of his stately lodge : 

These, and the name and title at full length, — 

Sir ^Ifrca Kttgitifi, with appropriate words 

Accompanied, still extant, in a wreath 

Or posy, girding round the several fronts 

Of three clear-sounding and harmonious bells. 

That in the steeple hang, his pious gift." 

" So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies," 
The grey-haired Wanderer pensively exclaimed, 
" All that this world is proud of. From their spheres 
The stars of human glory are cast down ; 
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 271 

Princes, and Emperors, and the crowns and palms 

Of all the mighty, withered and consumed !" 

Nor is power given to lowliest innocence 

Long to protect her own. The man himself 

Depai'ts ; and soon is spent the line of those 

Who, in the bodily image, in the mind. 

In heart or soul, in station or pursuit, 

Did most resemble him. Degrees and ranks. 

Fraternities and orders — heaping high 

New wealth upon the burthen of the old, 

And placing trust in pi'ivilege confirmed 

And re-confirmed — are scoffed at with a smile 

Of greedy foretaste, from the secret stand 

Of Desolation, aimed : to slow decline 

These yield, and these to sudden overthrow : 

Their virtue, service, happiness, and state 

Expire ; and nature's pleasant robe of green. 

Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps 

Their monuments and their memory. The vast Frame 

Of social nature changes evermore 

Her organs and her members with decay 

Restless, and restless generation, powers 

And functions dying and produced at need, — 

And by this law the mighty whole subsists : 

With an ascent and progress in the main ; 

Yet, oh ! how disproportioned to the hopes 

And expectations of self -flattering minds 1 

The courteous Knight, whose bones are here m* 
terred. 
Lived in an age conspicuous as our own 
For strife and ferment in the minds of men ; 
Whence alteration in the forms of things, 



272 THE EXCURSION. 

Various and vast. A memorable age ! 

Which did to him assign a pensive lot — 

To linger 'mid the last of those bright clouds 

That, on the steady breeze of honor, sailed 

In long procession calm and beautiful. 

He who had seen his own bright order fade, 

And its devotion gradually decline, 

(While war, relinquishing the lance and shield 

Her temper changed, and bowed to other laws) 

Had also witnessed, in his morn of life, 

That violent commotion, which o'erthrew, 

In town and city and sequestered glen. 

Altar, and cross, and church of solemn roof, 

And old religious house — pile after pile ; 

And shook their tenants out into the fields. 

Like wild beasts without home! Their hour was 

come ; 
But why no softening thought of gratitude. 
No just remembrance, scruple, or wise doubt ? 
Benevolence is mild ; nor borrows help. 
Save at worst need, from bold impetuous force 
Fitliest allied to anger and revenge. 
But Human-kind rejoices in the might 
Of mutability ; and airy hopes. 
Dancing around her, hinder and disturb 
Those meditations of the soul that feed 
The retrospective virtues. Festive songs 
Break from the maddened nations at the sight 
Of sudden overthrow ; and cold neglect 
Is the sure consequence of slow decay. 

Even," said the Wanderer, " as that courteous 
Knight, 



THE CHURCH- YARD, ETC. 273 

Bound by his vow to labor for redress 

Of all who suffer wrong, and to enact 

By sword and lance the law of gentleness, 

(If I may venture of myself to speak, 

Trusting that not incongruously I blend 

Low things with lofty) I too shall be doomed 

To outlive the kindly use and fair esteem 

Of the poor calling which my youth embraced 

With no unworthy prospect. But enough ; 

— Thoughts crowd upon me — and 't were seemlier 

now 
To stop, and yield our gracious Teacher thanks 
For the pathetic records which his voice 
Hath here delivered ; words of heartfelt truth, 
Tending to patience when affliction strikes ; 
To hope and love ; to confident repose 
In God ; and reverence for the dust of Man." 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK EIGHTH. 



THE PARSONAGE. 



THE PARSONAGliJ. 



ARGUMENT. 



PaStoi-'s apology and apprehensions that he might have detained his 

Auditors too long, the Pastor's invitation to his ho-iae. — Solitary 

disinclined to comply — rallies the Waaderer — and playfully draws a 
comparison between his itinerant profession and that of the Knight- 
errant — which leads to Wanderer's giving an account of changes in 
the Country from the manufacturing spirit. — Favorable effects. — The 
other side of the picture, and chiefly as it has affected the humbler 
classes. — Wanderer asserts the hollowness of all national grandeur if 
unsupported by moral worth. — Physical science imable to support 
itself. — Lamentations over an excess of manufacturing industry among 
the humbler Classes of Society, — Picture of a Child employed in a 
Cotton-mill. — Ignorance and degradation of Children among the agri- 
cultural Population reviewed.— Conversation broken ofif by a renewed 
Invitation from the Pastor. — Path leading to his House. — Its appear- 
ance described. — His Daughter. — His Wife. — His Son (a Boy) enters 
with his Companion. — Their happpy appearance. — The Wanderer 
how affected by the sight of them. 

'T'HE pensive Sceptic of the lonely vale 

To those acknowledgments subscribed his own, 
With a sedate compliance, which the Priest 
Failed not to notice, inly pleased, said : — 
" If ye, by whom invited I began 
These narratives of calm and humble life. 
Be satisfied, 'tis well, — ^the end is gained ; 
And, in return for sympathy bestowed 
And patient listening, thank;: accept from me. 
- — Life, death, eternity ! momentous themes 
24 277 



278 THE EXCURSION. 

Are tbey — and might demand a seraph's tongue. 
Were they not equal to their own support ; 
And therefore no incompetence of mine 
Could do them wrong. The universal forms 
Of human nature, in a spot like this. 
Present themselves at once to all men's view : 
Ye wished for act and circumstance, that make 
The individual known and understood ; 
And such as my best judgment could select 
From what the place afforded, have been given ; 
Though apprehensions crossed me that my zeal 
To his might well be likened, who unlocks 
A cabinet stored with gems and pictures — draws 
His treasures forth, soliciting regard 
To this, and this, as worthier than the last, 
Till the spectator, who awhile was pleased 
More than the exhibitor himself, becomes 
Weary and faint, and longs to be released. 
— But let us hence ! my dwelling is in sight. 
And there — " 

At this the Solitary shrunk 
With backward will ; but, wanting not address ■ 
That inward motion to disguise, he said 
To his Compatriot, smiling as he spake ; 
— " The peaceable remains of this good Knight 
Would be disturbed, I feax; with wrathful scorn. 
If consciousness could reach him where he lies 
That one, albeit of these degenerate times. 
Deploring changes past, or dreading change 
Foreseen, had dared to couple, even in thought, 
The fine vocation of the sword and lance 
With t'iC gross aims and body-bending toil 



L- 



THE PARSONAGE. 279 

Of a poor brotherhood who walk the earth 
Pitied, and, where they are not known, despised. 

Yet, by the good Knight's leave, the two estates 
Are srraced with some resenablance. Errant those. 
Exiles and wanderers — and the like are these ; 
Who, with their burthen, traverse hill and dale, 
Carrying relief for nature's simple wants. 
— What though no higher recompense be sought 
Thau honest maintenance, by irksome toil 
Full oft procured, yet may they claim respect. 
Among the intelligent, for what this course 
Enables them to be and to perform. 
Their tardy steps give leisure to observe. 
While solitude permits the mind to feel ; 
Instructs, and prompts her to supply defects 
By the division of her inward self 
For grateful converse : and to these poor men 
Nature (I but repeat your favorite beast) 
Is bountiful — go wheresoe'er they may ; 
Kind Nature's various wealth is all tlieir owiu 
Versed in the characters of men ; and bound, 
By ties of daily interest, to maintain 
Conciliatory manners and smooth speech ; 
Such have been, and still are in their degree. 
Examples efficacious to refine 
Eude intercoui'se ; apt agents to expel, 
By importation of unlooked-for arts, 
Barbarian toi'por, and Mind prejudice ; 
Raising, through Just gradation, savage life 
To rustic, and the rustic to urbane. 
' — Within their moving magazines is lodged 
Power that comes forth t& quicken and exalt 



280 THE EXCURSION. 

Affections seated in the mother's breast. 
And in the lover's fancy ; and to feed 
The sober sympathies of long-tried friends, 
—By these Itmerants, as experienced men. 
Counsel is given ; contention they appease 
With gentle language ; in remotest wilds. 
Tears wipe away, and pleasant tidings bring ; 
Could the proud quest of chivalry do more ?" 

" Happy," rejoined the Wanderer, " they who gain 
A panegyric from your generous tongue ! 
But, if to these Wayfarers once pertained 
Aught of romantic interest, it is gone. 
Their purer service, in this realm at least. 
Is past for ever, — An inventive Age 
Has wrought, if not with speed of magic, yet 
To most strange issues. I have lived to mark 
A new and unforeseen creation rise 
From out the labors of a peaceful Land 
Wielding her potent enginery to frame 
And to produce, with appetite as keen 
As that of war, which rests not night or day. 
Industrious to destroy ! With fruitless pains 
Might one like me now visit many a tract 
Which, in his youth, he trod, and trod again, 
A lone pedestrian with a scanty freight, 
Wished-for, or welcome, wheresoe'er he came — ^ 
Among the tenantry of thorpe and vill ; 
Or straggling burgh, of ancient charter proud. 
And dignified by battlements and towers 
Of some stern castle, mouldering on the brow 
Of a green hill or bank of rugged stream. 
The footh-path faintly marked, the horse-track wiM, 



THE PARSONAGE. 281 

And formidabfe length of plashy lane, 

(Prized avenues ere otkers had been shaped 

Or easier links connecting place with place) 

Have vanished^-swaliowed up bf stately roads 

Easy and bold, that penetrate the gloom 

Of Britain's farthest glens. The Earth has lent 

Her waters, Air her breezes ; and the sail 

Of tmfiic glides with ceaseless intercourse, 

<3-listening along the low and woody dale ; 

Or, in its progress, on the lofty side, 

Of seme bare hill, with wonder kenned from far." 

Meanwhile, at social Industry's command 
How quick, how vast an increase ! From the germ 
Of some poor hamlet, rapidly produced 
Here a huge town, continuous and compact, 
Hiding the face of earth for leagues-— and there. 
Where not a habitation stood before, 
Abodes of men irregularly massed 
Like trees in forests, — spread through spacious tracts, 
O'er which the smoke of unremitting fires 
Hangs permanent, and plentiful as wreaths 
Of vapor glittering in the morning sun. 
And, wheresoe'er the traveller turns his steps, 
He sees the barren wilderness erased, 
Or disappearing ; triumph that proclaims 
How much the mild Directress of the plough 
Owes to alliance with these new-born arts ! 
■ — Hence is the wide sea peopled, — hence the shores 
Of Britain are resorted to by ships 
Freighted from every climate of the world 
With the world's choicest produce. Hence that sum 
Of keels that rest within her crowded ports, 
24* 



282 THE EXCURSION. 

Or ride at anchor in her sounds and bays ; 

That anim iting spectacle of sails 

That, through her inland regions, to and fra 

Pass T^ith the respirations of the tide, 

Perpetual, multitudinous ! Finally, 

Hence a dread arm of floating power, a voice 

Of thunder, daunting those who would approach 

With hostile purposes the blessed Isle, 

Truth's consecrated residence, the seat 

Impregnable of Liberty and Peace. 

And yet, happy Pastor of a flock 
Faithfully watched, and, by that loving care 
And Heaven's good providence, preserved from 

taint ! 
With you I grieve, when on the darker side 
Of this great change I look ; and there behold 
Such outrage done to nature as compels 
The indignant power to justify herself ; 
Yea, to avenge her violated rights, 
For England's bane. — When soothing darkness 

spreads 
O'er hill and vale," the Wanderer thus expressed 
His recollections, " and the punctual stars. 
While all things else are gathering to their homes. 
Advance, and in the firmament of heaven 
Glitter — but undisturbing, undisturbed ; 
As if their silent company were charged 
With peaceful admonitions for the heart 
Of all-beholding Man, earth's thoughtful lord ; 
Then, in full many a region, once like this 
The assured domain of calm simplicity 
And pensive quiet, an unnatural light 



THE PARSONAGE. 28* 

Prepared for never-resting Labor's eyes 

Breaks from a many-windowed fabric huge ; 

And at the appoiiited hour a bell is heard, 

Of harsher import than the curfew-knoll 

That spake the Norman Conqueror's stern behest — 

A local summons to unceasing toil ! 

Disgorged are now the ministers of day ; 

And, as they issue from the illumined pile, 

A fresh band meets them, at the crowded door— 

And in the courts — and where the rumbling stream, 

That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels, 

Glares, like a troubled spirit, in its bed 

Among the rocks below. Men, maidens, youthSj, 

Mother and little children, boys and girls, 

Enter, and each the wonted task resumes 

Within this temple, where is offered up 

To Gain, the master idol of the realm. 

Perpetual sacrifice. Even thus of old 

Our ancestors, within the still domain 

Of vast cathedral or conventual church. 

Their vigils kept ; where tapers day and night 

On the dim altar burned continually. 

In token that the House was evermore 

Watching to God. Religious men were they j 

Nor would their reasons, tutored to aspire 

Above this transitory world, allow 

That there should pass a moment of the year. 

When in their land the Almighty's service ceased. 

Triumph who will in these profaner rites 
Which we, a generation self-extolled, 
As zealously perform ! I cannot share 
His proud complacency : — yet do I exult. 






284 THE EXCURSION. 

Casting reserve away, exult to see 

An intellectual mastery exercised 

O'er the blind elements ; a purpose given, 

A perseverance fed ; almost a soul 

Imparted-^to brute matter. I rejoice, 

Measuring the force of those gigantic powers 

That, by the thinking mind, have been compelled 

To serve the will of feeble-bodied Man. 

For with the sense of admiration blends 

The animating hope that time may come 

When, strengthened, yet not dazzled, by the might 

Of this dominion over nature gained. 

Men of all lands shall exercise the same 

In due proportion to their country's need ; 

Learning, though late, that all true glory rests. 

All praise, all safety, and all happiness. 

Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thebes, 

Tyre, by the margin of the sounding waves. 

Palmyra, central in the desert, fell ; 

And the Arts died by which they had been raised. 

— Call Archimedes from his buried tomb 

Upon the grave of vanished Syracuse, 

And feeUng the Sage shall make report 

How insecure, how baseless in itself, 

Is the Philosophy whose sway depends 

On mere material instruments ; — how weak 

Those arts, and high inventions, if unpropped 

By virtue. — He, sighing with pensive grief, 

Amid his calm abstractions, would admit 

That not the slender privilege is theirs 

To save themselves from blank forgetfulness I" 



THE PARSONAGE. 285 

When from the Wanderer's lips these ■words had 
fallen, 
I said, " And, did in truth those vaunted Arts 
Possess such privilege, how could we escape 
Sadness and keen regret, we who revere, 
And would preserve as things above all price. 
The old domestic morals of the land. 
Her simple manners, and the stable worth 
That dignified and cheered a low estate ? 
Oh ! where is now the character of peace, 
Sobriety, and order, and chaste love. 
And honest dealing, and untainted speech. 
And pure good-will, and hospitable cheer ; 
That made the very thought of country-life 
A thought of refuge, for a mind detained 
Reluctantly amid the bustling crowd ? 
Where now the beauty of the Sabbath kept 
With conscientious reverence, as a day 
By the almighty Lawgiver pronounced 
Holy and blest ? and where the winning grace 
Of all the lighter ornaments attached 
To time and season, as the year rolled round ?'* 

" Fled !" was the Wanderer's passionate response, 
" Fled utterly ! or only to be traced 
In a few fortunate retreats like this ; 
Which I behold with trembling, when I think 
What lamentable change, a year — a month- 
May bring ; that brook converting as it runs 
Into an instrument of deadly bane 
For those, who, yet untempted to forsake 
The simple occupations of their sires. 
Drink the pure water of its innocent stream 



286 THE EXCUK8I0N. 

With lip almost as pure. — Domestic bliss 

(Or call it comfort, by a humbler name,) 

How art thou blighted for the poor Man's heart ! 

Lo ! in such neighborhood, from morn to eve. 

The habitations empty ! or perchance 

The Mother left alone, — no helping hand 

To rock the cradle of her peevish babe ; 

No daughters round her, busy at the -wheel. 

Or in despatch of each day's little growth 

Of household occupation ; no nice arts 

Of needle- work ; no bustle at the fire, 

Where once the dinner was prepared with pride ; 

Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind ; 

Nothing to praise, to teach or to command ! 

The Father, if perchance he still retain 
His old employments, goes to field or wood. 
No longer led or followed by the Sons ; 
Idlers perchance they were, — but in his sight ; 
Breathing fresh air, and treading the green earth; 
'Till their short holiday of childhood ceased, 
Ne'er to return ! That birthright now is lost 
Economists will tell jow that the State 
Thrives by the forfeiture — ^unfeeling thought. 
And false as monstrous ! Can the mother thrive 
By the destruction of her innocent sons 
In whom a premature necessity 
Blocks out the forms of nature, preconsumes 
The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up 
The infant Being in itself, and makes 
Its very spring a season of decay ! 
The lot is wretched, the condition sad, 
Whether a pining discontent survive, 



THE PARSONAGE. 287 

And thirst for change ; or habit hath subdued 
The soul deprest, dejected — even to love 
Of her close tasks, and long captivity. 

Oh, banish far such wisdom as condemns 
A native Briton to these inward chains, 
Fixed in his soul, so early and so deep ; 
"Without his own consent, or knowledge, fixed ! 
He is a slave to whom release comes not, 
And cannot come. The boy, where'er he turns. 
Is still a prisoner; when the wind is up 
Among the clouds, and roars through the ancient 

woods ; 
Or when the suti is shining in the east, 
Quiet and calm. Behold him — in the school 
Of his attainments ? no ; but with the air 
Fanning his temples under heaven's blue arch. 
His raiment, whitened o'er with cotton-flakes 
Or locks of wool, announces whence he comes. 
Creeping his gait and cowering, his lip pal6, 
His respiration quick and audible ; 
And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam 
Could break from out those languid eyes, or a blush 
Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the form, 
Is that the countenance, and such the port, 
Of no mean Being ? One who should be clothed 
With dignity befitting his proud hope ; 
Who, in his very childhood, should appear 
Sublime from present purity and joy ! 
The limbs increase ; but liberty of mind 
Is gone for ever ; and this organic frame. 
So joyful in its motions, is become 
Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead ; 



288 THE EXCURSION. 

And even the touch, so exquisitely poured 

Through the whole body, with a languid will 

Performs its functions ; rarely competent 

To impress a yivid feeling on the mind 

Of what there is delightful in the breeze, 

The gentle visitations of the sun. 

Or lapse of liquid element — by hand. 

Or foot, or lip, in summer's warmth — perceived. 

— Can hope look forward to a manhood raised 

On such foundations ?" 

" Hope is none for him !" 
The pale Recluse indignantly exclaimed, 
" And tens of thousands suffer wrong as deep. 
Yet be it asked, in justice to our age. 
If there were not, before those arts appeared. 
These structures rose, commingling old and young, 
And unripe sex with sex, for mutual taint ; 
If there were not, then, in our far-famed Isle, 
Multitudes, who from infancy had breathed 
Air unimprisoned, and had lived at large ; 
Yet walked beneath the sun, in human shape, 
As abject, as degraded ? At this day. 
Who shall enumerate the crazy huts 
And tottering hovels, whence do issue forth 
A ragged Ojffspring, with their upright hair 
Crowned like the image of fentastic Fear ; 
Or wearing, (shall we say ?) in that white growth 
An ill-adjusted turban, for defence 
Or fierceness, wreathed around their sunburnt brows, 
By savage Nature ? Shrivelled are their lips ; 
Naked, and colored like the soil, the feet 
On which they stand ; as if thereby they drew 
Some nourishment, as trees do by their roots. 



THE PARSONAGE. 289 

From earth, the common mother of us all. 
Figure and mien, complexion and attire, 
Are leagued to strike dismay ; but outstretched hand 
And whining voice, denote them supplicants 
For the least boon that pity can bestow. 
Such on the breast of darksome heaths are found ; 
And with their parents occupy the skirts. 
Of furze-clad commons ; such are born and reared 
At the mine's mouth, under impending rocks ; 
Or dwell in chambers of some natural cave ; 
Or where their ancestors erected huts. 
For the convenience of unlawful gain. 
In forest purlieus ; and the like are bred, 
All England through, with nooks and slips of ground 
Purloined, in times less jealous than our own. 
From the green margin of the public way, 
A residence afford them, mid the bloom 
And gaiety of cultivated fields. 
Such, (we will hope the lowest in the scale) 
Do I remember oft-times to have seen 
'Mid Buxton's dreary heights. In earnest watch. 
Till the swift vehicle approach, they stand ; 
Then, followed closely with the cloud of dust. 
An uncouth feat exhibit, and are gone 
Heels over head, like tumblers on a stage. 
— Up from the ground they snatch the copper coin, 
And, on the freight of merry passengers 
Fixing a steady eye, maintain their speed ; 
And spin — and pant — and overhead again. 
Wild pursuivants ! until their breath is lost, 
Or bounty tires — and every face, that smiled 
Encouragement, hath ceased to look that way. 
— But, hke the vagrants of the gipsy tribe, 
25 



290 THE EXCUESION, 

These, bred to little pleasure in themselves. 
Are profitless to others. 

Turn we then 
To Britons born and bred within the pale 
Of civil polity, and early trained 
To earn, by wholesome labor in the field. 
The bread they eat. A sample should I give 
Of what this stock hath long produced to enricli 
The tender age of life, ye would exclaim, 
' Is this the whistling plough-boy whose shrill notes 
Imparts new gladness to the morning air !' 
Forgive me if I venture to suspect 
That many, sweet to hear of in soft verse. 
Are of no finer frame. Stiff are his joints ; 
Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees 
Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear. 
Fellows to those that lustily upheld 
The wooden stools for everlasting use. 
Whereon our fathers sate. And mark his brow ! 
Under whose shaggy canopy are set 
Two eyes — not dim, but of a healthy stare — 
Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and strange — 
Proclaiming boldly that they never drew 
A look or motion of intelligence 
From infant-conning of the Christ-cross-row, 
Or puzzling through a primer, line by hne. 
Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last, 
— What kindly warmth from touch of fostering hand 
What penetrating power of sun or breeze. 
Shall e'er dissolve the crust wherein his soul 
Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheathed in ice ? 
This torpor is no pitiable work 
Of modern ingenuity ; no town 



THE PARSONAGE. 291 

■N'or crowded -city can be taxed with aught 
Of sottish viee or desperate breach of law, 
To which (and who can tell where or how soon ?) 
He may be roused. This Boy the fields produce t 
His spade and hoe, mattock and glittei-ing scythe, 
The carter's whip that on his shoulder rests 
In air high-tewering with a boorish pomp, 
The sceptre of his sway ; his country's name. 
Her equal rights, her churches and her schools — 
What have they done for him ? Aud^ let me ask. 
For tens of thousands uninformed as he ? 
In brief, what liberty of mmd is here ?" 

This ar4ent saJiy pleased the miid good Man, 
To whom the appeal couched in its closing words 
Was pointedly addressed ; and to the thoughts 
That in ascent or opposition rose 
Within his mind, he seemed prepared to give 
Prompt utterance ; but the Vicar interposed 
With invitation urgently renewed. 
— We followed, taking as he led, a path 
Along a hedge of hollies dark and tall. 
Whose flexile boughs low bending with a weight 
•Of leafy spray, concealed the stems and roots 
That gave them nourishment. When frosty winds 
Hov/i from the north, what kindly warmth, methought, 
Is here — how grateful this impervious screen ! 
— !N"ot shaped by simple wearing of the foot 
On rural business passing to and fro 
Was the commodious walk : a careful hand 
Had marked the line., and strewn its surface o'er 
With pure cerulean gravel, from the heights 
Fetched bj a neighboring brooL — Across the vale 



292 THE EXCURSION. 

The stately fence accompanied our steps ; 
And thus the pathway, by perennial green 
Guai-ded and graced, seemed fashioned to unite. 
As by a beautiful yet solemn chain, 
The Pastor's mansion with the house of prayer. 

Like image of solemnity, conjoined 
With feminine allurement soft and fair. 
The mansion's self displayed ; — a reverend pile 
With bold projections and recesses deep ; 
Shadowy, yet gay and lightsome as it stood 
Fronting the noontide sun. We paused to admire 
The pillared porch, elaborately embossed ; 
The low wide windows with their muUions old j 
The cornice, richly fretted, of grey stone ; 
And that smooth slope from which the dwelling rose 
By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers 
And flowering shrubs, protected and adorned : 
Profusion bright ! and every flower assuming 
A more than natural vividness of hue. 
From unafiected contrast with the gloom 
Of sober cypress, and the darker foil 
Of yew, in which survive some traces, here 
Not unbecoming, of grotesque device 
And uncouth fancy. From behind the roof 
Rose the slim ash and massy sycamore, 
Blending their diverse foliage with the green 
Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clasped 
The huge round chimneys, harbor of delight 
For wren and redbreast, — where they sit and sing 
Their slender ditties when the trees are bare. 
Nor must I leave untouched (the picture else 
Were incomplete) a relique of old times 



THE PARSONAGE. S»3 

Happily spared, a little Oothic niche 
Of nicest workmanslnip ; that once had held 
The sculptured image of some patron-saint, 
Or of the blessed Virgin, looking down 
On all who entered those religious doors. 

But lo 1 where from the Rocky garden-mount 
Crowned by its antique summer-house— descends, 
Light as the silver fawn, a radiant Girl ; 
For she hath recognized her honored friend, 
The Wanderer ev'Cr welcome ! A prompt kiss 
The gladsome Child bestows at his request; 
And, up the flowery lawn as we advance, 
Hangs on the old Man with a happy look, 
And with a pretty restless hand of love, 
— We enter- — by the Lady of the place 
Cordially greeted. Oraceful was her port: 
A lofty stature, undepressed by time. 
Whose visitation had not wholly spared 
The finer lineaments of form and face ; 
To that complexion brought which prudence trusts in 
And wisdom loves.-— But when a stately ship 
Sails in smooth weather by the placid coast 
On homeward voyage, what— if wind and wav^ 
And hardship undergone in various climes, 
Have caused her to abate the virgin pride, 
And that full trim of inexperienced hope 
With which she left her haven — not for this, 
Should the sun strike her, and the impartial breeze 
Play on her streamers, fails she to assume 
Brightness and touching beauty of her own, 
That charm all eyes. So bright, so fair, appeared 
This goodly Matron, shining in the beams 
25* 



294 THE EXCURSION. 

Of unexpected pleasure. — Soon the board 
Was spread, and we partook a plain repast* 

Here, resting in cool shelter, we beguiled 
The mid-day hours with desultory talk ; 
From trivial themes to general argument 
Passing, as accident or fancy led, 
Or courtesy prescribed. While question rose 
And answer flowed, the fetters of reserve 
Dropping from every mind, the Solitary 
Resumed the manners of his happier days ; 
And in the various conversation bore 
A willing, nay, at times, a forward part ; 
Yet with the grace of one who in the world 
Had learned the art of pleasing, and had now 
Occasion given him to display his skill. 
Upon the steadfast 'vantage-ground of truth. 
He gazed vidth admiration unsuppressed. 
Upon the landscape of the sun-bright vale. 
Seen, from the shady room in which we sate. 
In softened perspective ; and more than once 
Praised the consummate harmony serene 
Of gravity and elegance, diff"used 
Around the mansion and its whole domain ; 
Not, doubtless, without help of female taste 
And female care. — " A blessed lot is yours !" 
The words escaped his lip, with a tender sigh 
Breathed over them ; but suddenly the door 
Flew open, and a pair of lusty Boys 
Appeared, confusion checking their delight, 
— Not brothers they in feature or attire. 
But fond companions, so I guessed, in field. 
And by the river's margin — whence they come. 



THE PARSONAGE. 296 

Keen anglers with unusual spoil elated. 

One bears a willow-pannier on his back. 

The boy of plainer garb, whose blush survives 

More deeply tinged. Twin might the other be 

To that fair girl who from the garden-mount 

Bounded ; — triumphant entry this for him ! 

Between his hands he holds a smooth blue stone, 

On whose capacious surface see outspread 

Large store of gleaming crimson-spotted trouts ; 

Ranged side by side, and lessening by degrees 

Up to the dwarf that tops the pinnacle. 

Upon the board he lays the sky-blue stone 

With its rich freight ; their number he proclaims ; 

Tells from what pool the noblest had been dragged ; 

And where the very monarch of the brook. 

After long struggle, had escaped at last — ■ 

Stealing alternately at them and us 

(As doth his comrade too) a look of pride ; 

And, verily, the silent creatures made 

A splendid sight, together thus exposed ; 

Dead — but not sullied or deformed by Death, 

That seemed to pity what he could not spare. 

But 0, the animation in the mien 
Of those two boys ! yea in the very words 
With which the young narrator was inspired, 
When, as our questions led, he told at large 
Of that day's prowess ! Him might I compare. 
His looks, tones, gestures, eager eloquence. 
To a bold brook that splits for better speed, 
And at the self-same moment, works its way 
Through many channels, ever and anon 
Parted and re-united : his compeer 



296 THE EXCURSION. 

To tlie still lake, whose stillness is to sight 
As beautiful — -as grateful to the mind. 
—But to what object shall the lovely Girl 
Be likened ? She whose countenance and air 
Unite the graceful qualities of both, 
Even as she shares the pride and joy of both. 

My grey-haired Friend was moved ; his vivid eye 
Glistened with tenderness ; his mind, I knew, 
Was full : and had, I doubted not, returned, 
Upon this impulse, to the theme — erewhile 
Abruptly broken off. The ruddy boys 
Withdrew, on summons to their well-earned meal ; 
And He — ^to whom all tongues resigned their rights 
With willingness, to whom the general ear 
Listened with readier patience than to strain 
Of music, lute or harp, a long delight 
That ceased not when his voice had ceased — as On« 
Who from truth's central point serenely views 
The compass of his argument — began 
Mildly, and with a clear and steady tone. 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK NINTH. 



DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER. 

AND AN 

EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 



DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, AND AN 
EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 



ABGUMENT . 



Wanderer asserts that an active principle pervades the Universe, its 
noblest seat the human soul. — How lively this principle is in Child- 
hood. — Hence the delight in old Age of looking back upon Child- 
hood. — The dignity, powers, and privileges of Age asserted. — These 
not to be looked for generally but under a j ust government. — Right of a 
huiuf n Creature to be exempt from being considered as a mere In- 
strument. — The condition of multitudes deplored. — Former conversa- 
tion recui-red to, and the Wanderer's opinions set in a clearer light. — 
Truth placed within reach of the humblest. — Equality. — Happy state 
of the two boys again adverted to. — Earnest wish expressed for a Sys- 
tem of National Education established universally by Government. 
— Glorious effects of this foretold. — Walk to the Lake. — Grand spec- 
tacle fi'om the side of a hiU. — Address of the Priest to the Supreme Be- 
ing — in the course of which he contrasts with ancient Barbarism the 
present appearance of the scene before him. — The change ascribed to 
Christianiiy. — Apostrophe to his flock, living and dead. — Gratitude to 
the Almighty. — Return over the Lake. — Parting with the Solitary.— 
Under what circumstances. 

" nnO every Form of being is assigned," 

Thus calmly spake the venerable Sage, 
"An active Principle :■ — howe'er removed 
From sense and observation, it subsists 
In all things, in all natures ; in the stars 
Of azure heaven, the unenduring clouds, 
In flower and tree, in every pebbly stone 
That paves the brooks, the stationary rocks, 
The moving waters, and the invisible air. 
299 



300 THE EXCURSION. 

Whate'er exists hath properties that spread 

Beyond itself, communicating good, 

A simple blessing, or with evil mixed ; 

Spirit that knows no insulated spot, 

No chasm, no solitude ; from link to link 

It circulates, the Soul of all the worlds. 

This is the freedom of the universe ; 

Unfolded still the more, more visible. 

The more we know ; and yet is reverenced least, 

And least respected in the human Mind, 

Its most apparent home. The food of hope 

Is meditated action ; robbed of this, 

Her sole support, she languishes and dies. 

We perish also ; for we live by hope 

And by desire ; we see by the glad light 

And breathe the sweet air of futurity ; 

And so we live, or else we have no life. 

To-morrow — nay perchance this very hour 

(For every moment hath its own to-morrow !) 

Those blooming Boys, whose hearts are almost sick 

With present triumph, will be sure to find 

A field before them freshened with the dew 

Of other expectations ; — in which course 

Their happy year spins round. The youth obeys 

A glad impulse ; and so moves the man 

'Mid all his apprehensions, cares, and fears, — 

Or so he ought to move. Ah ! why in age 

Do we revert so fondly to the walks 

Of childhood — but that there the Soul discerns 

The dear memorial footsteps unimpaired 

Of her own native vigor ; thence can hear 

Reverberations ; and a choral song. 

Commingling with the incense that ascends. 



r 



DISCOURSE, ETC. 301 

Undaunted, towards the imperishable heavens, 
From her own lonely altar ? 

Do not think 
That good and wise ever will be allowed. 
Though strength decay, to breathe in such estate 
As shall divide them wholly from the stir 
Of hopeful nature. Rightly is it said 
That Man descends into the Vale of years ; 
Yet have I thought that we might also speak. 
And not presumptuously, I trust, of Age, 
As of a final Eminence ; though bare 
In aspect and forbidding, yet a point 
On which 't is not impossible to sit 
^n awful sovereignty ; a place of power, 
A throne that may be likened unto his. 
Who, in some placid day of summer, looks 
Down from a mountain-top, — say one of those 
High peaks that bound the vale where now we are. 
Faint, and diminished to the gazing eye, 
Forest and field, and hill and dale appear, 
With all the shapes over their surface spread : 
But, Mobile the gross and visible frame of things 
Relinquishes its hold upon the sense, 
Yea almost on the Mind herself, and seems 
All unsubstantialized,— how loud the voice 
Of waters, with invigorated peal 
From the full river in the vale below, 
Ascending ! For on that superior height 
Who sits, is disincumbered from the press 
Of near obstructions, and is privileged 
To breathe in solitude, above the host 
Of ever -humming insects, 'mid thin air 
That suits not them. The murmur of the leaves 



"1 



3(^ THE EXCURSION. 

Many and idle, visits not his ear ; 

This he is freed from, and from thousand notes 

(Not less imceasing, not less vain than these,) 

By which the finer passages of sense 

Are occupied ; and the Soul that would incline 

To listen, is prevented or deterred. 

And may it not be hoped, that, placed by age 
In like removal, tranquil though severe, 
We are not so removed for utter loss ; 
But for some favor, suited to our need ? 
What more than that the severing should confer 
Fresh power to commune with the invisible world, 
And hear the mighty stream of tendency 
Uttering, for elevation of our thought, 
A clear sonorous voice, inaudible 
To the vast multitude ; whose doom it is 
To run the giddy round of vain delight. 
Or fret and labor on the Plain below. 

But, if to such sublime ascent the hopes 
Of Man may rise, as to a welcome close 
And termination of his mortal course ; 
Them only can such hope inspire whose minds 
Have not been starved by absolute neglect ; 
Nor bodies crushed by unremitting toil ; 
To whom kind Nature, therefore, may afford 
Proof of the sacred love she bears for all ; 
Whose birthright Reason, therefore, may ensure. 
For me, consulting what I feel within 
In times when most existence with herself 
Is satisfied, I cannot but believe, 
That, far as kindly Nature hath free scope 



DISCOURSE, ETC. 303 

And Reason's sway piTcdominates ; even so far. 
Country, society, and time itself, 
That saps the individual's bodily frame. 
And lays the generations low in dust, 
Do, by the almighty Ruler's grace, partake 
Of ®ne maternal spirit, bringing forth 
And cherishing with ever-constant love. 
That tires not, nor betrays. Our life is turned 
Out ©f her course, wherever man is made 
An offering, or a sacrifice, a tool 
Or implement, a passive thing employed 
As a L.rute mean, without acknowledgment 
Of common right or interest in the end ; 
Used or abused, as selfishness may prompt. 
Say, what can follow for a rational soul 
Perverted thus, but weakness in all good, 
And strength in evil ? Hence an after-call 
For chastisement, and custody, and bonds. 
And oft-times Death, avenger of the past, 
And the sole guardian in whose hands we dare 
Entrust the future. — Not for these sad issues 
Was Man created ; but to obey the law 
Of life, and hope, and action. And 't is known 
That when we stand upon our native soil, 
Unelt)owed by such objects as oppress 
Our active powers, those powers themselves become 
Strong to subv^ert our noxious qualities: 
They sweep distemper from the busy day. 
And make the chalice of the big round year 
Eum o'er with gladness ; whence the Being moves 
In beauty tlii'ougli the woiid ; and all who see 
13Jcs-s him, rejoicing in his neighborhood," 
■" Tliem," !-aid the Solilary, " by wliat for^e 



304 THE EXCURSION. 

Of language shall a feeling heart express 

Her sorrow for that multitude in whom 

We look for health from seeds that have been sow© 

In sickness, and for increase in a power 

That works but by extinction ? On themselves 

They cannot lean, nor turn to their own hearts 

To know what they must do ; their wisdom is 

To look into the eyes of others, thence 

To be instructed what they must avoid : 

Or rather, let us say, how least observed. 

How with most quiet and most silent death, 

"With the least taint and injury to the air 

The oppressor breathes, their human farm divine. 

And their immortal soul, may waste away." 

The Sage rejoined, " I thank you — you have spared 
My voice the utterance of a keen regret, 
A wide compassion which with you I share. 
"When, heretofore, I placed before your sight 
A Little-one, subjected to the arts 
Of modern ingenuity, and made 
The senseless member of a vast machine. 
Serving as doth a spindle or a wheel ; 
Think not, that, pitying him, I could forget 
The rustic Boy, who walks the fields, untaught ; 
The slave of ignorance, and oft of Avant, 
And miserable hunger. Much, tcK) much. 
Of this unhappy lot, in early youth 
We both have witnessed, lot which I myself 
Shared, though in mild and merciful degree: 
Yet was the mind to hindrances exposed, 
Throuo'h which I struo-ofled, not without distress 
And sometimes injury, like a lamb enthralled 



blSCOCRSS), ETC. 505 

''Mid thoTfis and brambles ; or a bird tKat breaks 
Through a strong net, and mounts upon the wind, 
Though with her plumes impaired. If they whose 

souls 
Should open while they raftge the richer fields 
Of merry England, a're obstructed less 
By indigence^ their ignorance is not less, 
Nor less to be deplored. For who can doubt 
That tens of thousands at this day exist 
Such as the boy you painted, lineal heirs 
Of those who once were vassals of her soil. 
Following its fortunes like the beasts or trees 
Which it sustained ? But no one takes delight 
In this oppi-ession ; none are proud of it ; 
It bears no sounding name, nor ever bore ; 
A standing grievance, an indigenous vice 
Of every country under heaven. My thoughts 
Were turned to evils that ai'e new and chosen, 
A bondage lurking under shape of good,— 
Arts, in themselves beneficent and kind, 
But eJI too fondly followed and too far ;— 
To victims, which the merciful can see 
Nor think that they are victims — turned to Wrongs, 
By women, who have children of their own. 
Beheld without compassion, yea with praise! 
I spake of mischief by the wise diffused 
With gladness, thinking that the more it spreads 
The healthier, the securer, we become ; 
Delusion which a moment may destroy I . 

Lastly, I mourned for those whom I had seen 
Corrupted and cast down, on favored ground, 
Where circumstance and nature had combined 
To shelter innocence, and cherish love ; 
26* 



306 THE EXCURSION. 

Who, but for this intrusion, would have lived, 
Possessed of health, and strength, and peace of mind ; 
Thus would have lived, or never have been born, 

Alas ! what differs more than man from man ! 

And whence that difference ? whence but from him- 
self? 

For see the universal Race endowed 

With the same upright form ! — ^The sun is fixed. 

And the infinite magnificence of heaven 

Fixed, within reach of every human eye ; 

The sleepless ocean munnurs for all ears ; 

The vernal field infuses fresh delight 

Into all hearts. Throughout the Avorld of sense. 

Even as an object is sublime or fair, 

That object is laid open to the view 

Without reserve or veil ; and as a power 

Is salutary, or an influence sweet, 

Are each and all enabled to perceive 

That power, that influence, by impartial law. 

Gifts nobler are vouchsafed alike to all ; 

Reason, and, with that reason, smiles and tears ; 

Imagination, freedom in the will ; 

Conscience to guide and check ; and death to be 

Foretasted, immortality conceived 

By all, — a blissful immortality. 

To them whose holiness on earth shall make 

The Spirit capable of heaven, assured. 

Strange, then, nor less than monstrous, might be 
deemed 

The failure, if the Almighty, to this point 

Liberal and undistinguishing, should hide 

The excellence of moral equalities 



DISCOURSE, ETC. SQI 

From common understanding ; leaving trttli 
And virtue, difficult, abstruse, and dark ; 
Hard to be won, and only by a few ; 
Strange, should He det^l herein with nice respects. 
And frvistrate all the rest ! Believe it not ; 
The primal duties shine aloft — like stars ; 
The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, 
Are scattered at the feet of Man— like flowers. 
The generous inclination, the just rule, 
Kind wishes, and. good actions, and. pure thoughts- 
No mystery is here ! Here is no boon 
For high — yet not for low ; for proudly graced— 
Yet not for meek of heart. The smoke ascends 
To heaven as lightly from the cottage.-hearth 
As from the haughtiest palace. He, whose soul 
Ponders this true equality, may walk 
The fields of earth with gratitude and hope ; 
Yet, in that meditation, will he find 
Motive to sadder grief, as we have found; 
Lamenting ancient virtues overthrown, 
And for the injustice grieving, that hath made 
So wide a difference between man and man. 

Then let us rather fix our gladdened thoughts 
Upon the brighter scene. How blest that pair 
Of blooming Boys (which we beheld even now) 
Blest in their several and their common lot ! 
A few short hours of each returning day 
The thriving prisoners of their village-school r 
And thence let loose, to seek their pleasant homes 
Or range the grassy lawn in vacancy ; 
To breathe and to be happy, run and shout 
Idle, — but no delay, no harm, no loss j 



308 T H B E X C U R S I N, 

For every genial power of heaven and earth, 

Through all the seasons of the changeful year, 

Obsequiously doth take upon herself 

To labor for them ; bringing each in turn 

The tribute of enjoyment, knowledge, health, 

Beauty, or strength ! Such privilege is theirs, 

Granted alike in the outset of their course 

To both ; and, if that partnership must cease, 

I grieve not," to the Pastor here he turned, 

" Much as I glory in that child of yours. 

Repine not for his cottage-comrade, whom 

Belike no higher destiny awaits 

Than the old hereditary wish fulfilled ; 

The wish for liberty to live — content 

With what Heaven grants, and die — ^in peace of mind, 

"Within the bosom of his native vale. 

At least, whatever fate the noon of life 

Reserves for either, sure it is that both 

Have been permitted to enjoy the dawn ; 

Whether regarded as a jocund time. 

That in itself may terminate, or lead 

In course of nature to a sober eve. 

Both have been fairly dealt with ; looking back 

They will allow that justice has in them 

Been shown, alike to body and to mind." 

He paused, as if revolving in his soul 
Some weighty matter ; then, with fervent voice 
And an impassioned majesty, exclaimed^- 

" O for the coming of that glorious time 
When, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth 
And best protection, this imperial Realm, 











DISCOURSE, ETC. 309 






While she exacts allegiance, shall admit 






An obligation, on her part, to teach 

Them who are born to serve her and obey ; 






Binding herself by statute to secure 






For all the children whom her soil maintains 






The rudiments of letters, and inform 






The mind with moral and religious truth. 






Both understood and practised, — so that none, 






However destitute, be left to droop 

By timely culture unsustained ; or run 

Into a wild disorder ; or be forced 

To drudge, through a weary life, without the help 

Of intellectual implements and tools ; 

A savage horde among the civilized, 






A servile band among the lordly free P* 






This sacred right the lisping babe proclaims 
To be inherent in him, by heaven's will. 




; 


For the protection of his innocence ; 
And the rude boy — who, having overpast 
The sinless age, by conscience is enrolled. 






Yet mutinously knits his angry brow. 

And lifts his wilful hand on mischief bent, 

Or turns the godlike faculty of speech 

To impious use — by process indirect 

Declares his due, while he makes known his need. 

— This sacred right is fruitlessly announced. 

This universal plea in vain addressed, 

To eyes and ears of pai-ents who themselves 

Did, in the time of their necessity. 

Urge it in vain ; and therefore, like a prayer 

That from the humblest floor ascends to heaven. 

It mounts to reach the State's parental ear ; 






Who, if indeed she own a mother's heart, 











310 THE EXCURSION, 

And be not most unfeelingly devoid 

Of gratitude to Providence, will grant 

The unquestionable good — which, England, safe 

From interference of external force. 

May grant at leisure ; without risk incuiTed 

That what in wisdom for herself she doth, 

Others shall e'er be able to undo. 

Look ! and behold, from Calpe's sunburnt cliflfs 
To the flat margin of the Baltic sea. 
Long-reverenced titles cast away as weeds ; 
Laws overturned ; and territory split, 
Like fields of ice rent by the polar wind, 
And forced to join in less obnoxious shapes 
Which, ere they gain consistence, by a gust 
Of the same breath are shattered and destroyed. 
Meantime the sovereignty of these fair Isles 
Remains entire and indivisible : 
And, if that ignorance were removed, which breeds 
Within the compass of their several shores 
Dark discontent, or loud commotion, each 
Might still preserve the beautiful repose 
Of heavenly bodies shining in their spheres. 
■ — The discipline of slavery is unknown 
Among us, — hence the more do we require 
The discipline of virtue ; order else 
Cannot subsist, nor confidence, nor peace. 
Thus, duties rising out of good possest 
And prudent caution needful to avert 
Impending evil, equally require 
That the whole people should be taught and trained. 
So shall licentiousness and black resolve 
Be rooted out, and virtuous habits take 



DISCOURSE, ETC 311 

Their place ; and genuine piet}' descend, 
Like an inheritance, from age to age. 

With such foundations laid, avaunt the fear 
Of numbers crowded on their native soil, 
To the prevention of all healthful growth 
Through mutual injury ! Rather in the law 
increase, and the mandate from above 
Rejoice I — 'and ye have special cause for joy. 
For, as the element of air affords 
An easy passage to the industrious bees 
Fraught with their burthens ; and a way as smooth 
For those ordained to take their sounding flight 
From the thronged hive, and settle where they list 
In fresh abodes — their labor to renew ; 
So the wide waters, open to the power, 
The will, the instincts, and appointed needs 
Of Britain, do invite her to cast off 
Her swarms, and in succession send them forth ; 
Bound to establish new communities 
On every shore whose aspect favors hope 
Or bold adventure ; promising to skill 
And perseverance their deserved reward. 

Yes," he continued, kindling as he spake, 
" Change wide, and deep, and silently performed, 
This Land shall witness ; and as days roll on. 
Earth's universal frame shall feel the effect ; 
Even till the smallest habitable rock, 
Beaten by lonely billows, hear the songs 
Of humanized society ; and bloom 
With civil arts, that shall breathe forth their fragrance, 
A grateful tribute to all-ruling Heaven. 



312 THE EXCURSION. 

From culture, unexclusively bestowed 

On Albion's noble Race in freedom born, 

Expect these mighty issues : from the pains 

And faithful care of unambitious schools 

Instructing simple childhood's ready ear: 

Thence look for these magnificent results ! 

— Vast the circumfei-ence of hope — and ye 

Are at its centre, British Lawgivers ; 

Ah ! sleep not there in shame ! Shall Wisdom's voice 

From out the bosom of these troubled times 

Repeat the dictates of her calmej- mind, 

And shall the venerable halls ye fill 

Refuse to echo the sublime decree ? 

Trust not to pai-tial care a general good ; 

Transfer not to futurity a work 

Of urgent need. — Your Country must complete 

Her gloriou.s destiny. Begin even now, 

]S"ow, when oppression, like the Egyptian plague 

Of darkness, stretched o'er guilty Europe makes 

The brightness more conspicuous that invests 

The happy Island where ye think and act ; 

Now, when destruction is a prime pursuit, 

Show to the wretched nations for what end 

The powers of civil pohty were given." 

Abruptly here, but with a gi-aceful air, 
The Sage broke off. No sooner had he ceased 
Than, looking forth, the gentle Lady said, 
" Behold tlie shades of afternoon have fallen 
Upon this floweiy slope ; and see — beyond — 
The silvery lake is streaked with placid blue ; 
As if pieparing for the peace of evening. 
How temptingly the landscape shines ! The air 



DISCOURSE, ETC. 313 

Breathes invitation ; easy is the walk 

To the lake's margin, where a boat lies moored 

Under a sheltering tree." — Upon this hint 

We rose together : all were pleased ; but most 

The beauteous girl, whose cheek was flushed with joy. 

Light as a sunbeam glides along the hills 

She vanished — eager to impart the scheme 

To her loved brother and his shy compeer. 

— Now was there bustle in the Vicar's house 

And earnest preparation. — Forth we went, 

And down the vale along the streamlet's edge 

Pursued our way, a broken company, 

Mute or conversing, single or in pairs. 

Thus having reached a bridge, that overarched 

The hasty rivulet where it lay becalmed 

In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw 

A two-fold image ; on a grassy bank 

A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood 

Another and the same ! Most beautiful, 

On the green turf, with his imperial front 

Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb, 

The breathing creature stood ; as beautiful, 

Beneath him, showed his shadowy counterpart. 

Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky. 

And each seemed centre of his own fair world : 

Antipodes unconscious of each other, 

Yet, in partition, with their several spheres, 

Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight ! 

" Ah ! what a pity were it to disperse, 
Or to disturb, so fair a spectacle, 
And yet a breath can do it !" 
21 



314 THE EXCURSION, 

These few words 
The Lady whispered, while we stood and gazed 
Gathered together, all in still delight. 
Not without awe. Thence passing on, she said 
In like low voice to my particular ear, 
" I love to hear that eloquent old Man 
Pour forth his meditations, and descant 
On human life from infancy to age. 
How pure his spirit ! in what vivid hues 
His mind gives back the various forms of things. 
Caught in their fairest, happiest, attitude ! 
While he is speaking, I have power to see 
Even as he sees ; but when his voice hath ceased. 
Then, With a sigh, sometimes I feel, as now. 
That combinations so serene and bright 
Cannot be lasting in a world like ours, 
Whose highest beauty, beautiful as it is, 
Like that reflected in yon quiet pool. 
Seems but a fleeting sunbeam's gift, whose peace 
The sufferance only of a breath of air !" 

More had she said — btit sportive shouts were heard 
Sent from the jocund hearts of those two Boys, 
Who, bearing each a basket on his arm, 
Down the green field came tripping after us. 
With caution we embarked ; and now the paii 
For prouder service were addrest ; but each, 
Wishful to leave an opening for my choice. 
Dropped the light oar his eager hand had seized. 
Thanks given for that becoming courtesy. 
Their place I took — ^and for a grateful office 
Pregnant with recollections of the time 
When, on thy bosom, spacious Windermere 



DISCOURSE, ETC. 315 

A. Youth, I practised this delightful art ; 

Tossed on the waves alone, or 'mid a crew 

Of joyous comrades. Soon as the reedy marge 

Was cleared, I dipped, with arms accordant, oars 

Free from obstruction ; and the boat advanced 

Through crystal water, smoothly as a hawk, 

That, disentangled from the shady boughs 

Of some thick wood, her place of covert, cleaves 

With correspondent wings the abyss of air. 

— " Observe," the Vicar said, " yon rocky isle 

With birch-trees fringed ; my hand shall guide the 

helm. 
While thitherward we shape our course ; or while 
We seek that other, on the western shore ; 
Where the bare columns of those lofty firs, 
Supporting gracefully a massy dome 
Of sombre foliage, seem to imitate 
A Oreeian temple rising from the Deep." 

" Turn where we may," said I, " we cannot err 
In this delicious region." — Cultured slopes, 
Wild tracts of forest-ground, and scattered groves. 
And mountains bare, or clothed with ancient woods, 
Surrounded us ; and, as we held our way 
Along the level of the glassy flood. 
They ceased not to surround us ; change of place. 
From kindred features diversely combined, 
Producing change of beauty ever new. 
— Ah ! that such beauty, varying in the light 
Of living nature, cannot' be portrayed 
By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill; 
But is the property of him alone 
Who hath beheld it, noted it with care. 



316 THE EXCURSION. 

And in his mind recorded it with love ! 

Suffice it, therefore, if the rural Muse 

Vouchsafe sweet influence, while her Poet speaks 

Of trivial occupations well devised, 

And unsought pleasures springing up by chance ; 

As if some friendly Genius had ordained 

That, as the day thus far had been enriched 

By acquisition of sincere delight 

The same should be continued to its close. 

One spirit animating old and young, 
A gipsy-fire we kindled on the shore 
Of the fair Isle with birch -trees fringed — and there. 
Merrily seated in a ring, partook 
A choice repast — served by our young companions 
With rival earnestness and kindred glee. 
Launched from our hands the smooth stone skimmed 

the lake ; 
With shouts we raised the echoes ; stiller sounds 
The lovely Girl supplied — a simple song, 
Whose low tones reached not to the distant rocks 
To be repeated thence, but gently sank 
Into our hearts ; and charmed the peaceful flood. 
Rapaciously we gathered flowery spoils 
From land and water ; Mlies of each hue — 
Golden and white, that float upon the waves, 
And court the wind ; and leaves of that shy plant,, 
(Her flowers were shed), the lily of the vale. 
That loves the ground, and from the sun withholds 
Her pensive beauty ; from the breeze her sweets. 

Such product, and such pastime, did the place 
And season yield ; but, as we re-embarked. 



DISCOURSE, ETC. 31? 

Leaving, in quest of other scenes, the shore 

Of that wild spot, the Sohiary said 

In a low voice, yet careless who might hear, 

■" The fire, that bui'ned so brightly to our wish, 

Where -is; it -oow ?— Deserted on the beach — 

Dying, or dead ! Nor shall the fanning breeze 

Revive its ashes. What care we for this, 

Whose ends are gained ? Behold an emblem here 

Of one day's pleasure, and all mortal joys! 

And, in this unpremeditated slight 

Of that which is no longer needed, see 

The common course of human gratitude !" 

This plaintive note disturbed not the repose 
Of the still evening. Right across the lake 
Our pinnace moves ; then, coasting creek and bay, 
Glades we behold, and into thickets peep. 
Where couch the spotted deer ; or raised our eyes 
To shaggy steeps on which the careless goat 
Browsed by the side of dashing waterfalls ; 
And thus the bark, meandering with the shore, 
Pursued her voyage, till a natural pier 
Of jutting rock invited us to land. 

Alert to follow as the Pastor led, 
We clomb a green hill's side ; and, as we clomb, 
The Valley, opening out her bosom, gave 
Fair prospect, intercepted less and less. 
O'er the flat meadows and indented coast 
Of the smooth lake, in compass seen : — ^far off, 
And yet conspicuous, stood the old Church- tower, 
In majesty presiding over fields 
And habitations seemingly preserved 
27* 



318 THE EXCURSION. 

From all intrusion of the restless world 
By rocks impassable and mountains Luge. 

Soft heath this elevated spot supplied, 
And choice of moss-clad stones, whereon we couched 
Or sate reclined ; admiring quietly 
The general aspect of the scene ; but each 
Not seldom over anxious to make known 
His own discoveries ; or to favorite points 
Directing notice, merely from a wish 
To impart a joy, imperfect while unshared. 
That raptvirous moment never shall I forget 
When these particular interests were effaced 
From every mind ! — Already had the sun, 
Sinking with less than ordinary state. 
Attained his western bound ; but rays of light — 
Now suddenly diverging from the orb 
Retired behind the mountain tops or veiled 
By the dense air — shot upwards to the crown 
Of the blue firmament — aloft, and wide ; 
And multitudes of little floating clouds. 
Through their ethereal texture pierced — ere we. 
Who saw, of change were conscious — had become 
Vivid as fire ; clouds separately poised, — 
Innumerable multitude of forms 
Scattered through half the circle of the sky ; 
And giving back, and shedding each on each. 
With prodigal communion, the bright hues 
Which from the unapparent fount of glory 
They had imbibed, and ceased not to receive. 
That which the heavens displayed, the liquid deep 
Repeated ; but with unity sublime ! 



DISCOURSE, ETC. 319 

While from the grassy mountain's open side 
We gazed, in silence hushed, with eyes intent 
On the refulgent spectacle, diffused 
Through earth, sky, water, and all visible space, 
The Priest in holy transport thus exclaimed : 

" Eternal Spirit ! universal God ! 
Power inaccessible to human thought. 
Save by degrees and steps which thou hast deigned 
To furnish ; for this effluence of thyself, 
To the infirmity of mortal sense 
Vouchsafed ; this local transitory type 
Of thy paternal splendors, and the pomp 
Of those who fill thy courts in highest heaven. 
The radiant Cherubim ; — accept the thanks 
Which we, thy humble Creatures, here convened. 
Presume to offer; we, who — from the breast 
Of the frail earth, permitted to behold 
The faint reflections only of thy face — ■ 
Are yet exalted, and in soul adore ! 
Such as they are who in thy presence stand 
Unsullied, incorruptible, and drink 
Imperishable majesty streamed forth 
From thy empyreal throne, the elect of earth 
Shall be — divested at the appointed hour 
Of all dishonor, cleansed from mortal stain. 
Accomplish, then, their number ; and conclude 
Time's weary course ! Or if, by thy decree, 
The consummation that will come by stealth 
Be yet far distant, let thy Word prevail. 
Oh ! let thy Word prevail, to take away 
The sting of human nature. Spread the law. 
As it is written in thy holy book, 



320 THE EXCURSION. 

Throngliout all lands : let every nation hear 
The high behest, and every heart obey ; 
Botli for the love of purity, and hope 
Which it affords, to such as do thy will 
And persevere in good, that they shall rise, 
To have a nearer view of thee, in heaven. 
— Father of good ! this prayer in bounty grant, 
In mercy grant it, to thy wretched sons. 
Then, nor till then, shall persecution cease, 
And cruel wars expire. The way is marked, 
The guide appointed, and the ransom paid. 
Alas ! the nations, who of yore received 
These tidings, and in Christian temples meet 
The sacred truth to acknowledge, linger still ; 
Preferring bonds and darkness to a state 
Of holy freedom, by redeeming love 
Proffered to all, while yet on earth detained. 

So fare the many ; and the thoughtful few. 
Who in the anguish of their souls bewail 
This dire perverseness, cannot choose but ask, 
Shall it endure ? — Shall enmity and strife, 
Falsehood and guile, be left to sow their seed ; 
And the kind never perish ? Is the hope 
Fallacious, or shall righteousness obtain 
A peaceable dominion, wide as earth, 
And ne'er to fail ? Shall that blest day arrive 
When they, whose choice or lot it is to dwell 
In crowded cities, without fear shall live 
Studious of mutual benefit ; and he, 
Whom morn awakens, among dews and flowers 
Of every clime, to till the lonely field. 
Be happy in himself ? — The law of faith 



DISCOURSE, ETC. 321 

Working through love, such conquest shall it gain, 
Such triumph over sin and guilt achieve ? 
Almighty Lord, thy further grace impart ! 
And with that help the wonder shall be seen 
Fulfilled, the hope accomplished ; and thy praise 
Be sang with transport and unceasing joy. 

Once," and with mild demeanor, as he spake, 
On us the venerable Pastor turned 
His beaming eye that had been raised to Heaven, 
" Once, while the Name, Jehovah, was a sound 
Within the circuit of this sea-girt isle 
Unheard, the savage nations bowed the head 
To Gods delighting in remorseless deeds ; 
Gods which themselves had fashioned, to promote 
111 purposes, and flatter foul desires. 
Then, in the bosom of yon mountain-cove. 
To those inventions of corrupted man 
Mysterious rites were solemnized ; and there — 
Amid impending rocks and gloomy woods — 
Of those terrific Idols some received 
Such dismal service, that the loudest voice 
Of the swoln cataracts (which now are heard 
Soft murmuring) was too weak to overcome. 
Though aided by wild winds, the groans and shrieks 
Of human victims, offered up to appease 
Or to propitiate. And, if living eyes 
Had visionary faculties to see 
The thing that hath been as the thing that is. 
Aghast we might behold this crystal Mere 
Bedimmed with smoke, in wreaths voluminous, 
Flung from the body of devouring fires, 
To Taranis erected on the heights 



322 THE EXCURSION. 

By priestly hands, for sacrifice performed 

Exultingly, in view of open day 

And full assemblage of a barbarous host ; 

Or to Andates, female Power ! who gave 

(For so they fancied) glorious victory. 

— A few rude monuments of mountain-stone 

Survive ; all else is swept away. — How bright 

The appearances of things ! From such, how changed 

The existing worship ; and with those compared, 

The worshippers how innocent and blest ! 

So wide the difference, a willing mind 

Might almost think, at this affecting hour, 

That paradise, the lost abode of man, 

Was raised again : and to a happy few 

In its original beauty, here restored. 

Whence but from thee, the true and only God, 
And from the faith derived through Him who bled 
Upon the cross, this marvellous advance 
Of good from evil ; as if one extreme 
Were left, the other gained. — ye, who come 
To kneel devoutly in yon reverend Pile, 
Called to such office by the peaceful sound 
Of Sabbath bells ; and ye, who sleep in earth 
All cares forgotten, round its hallowed walls ! 
For you, in presence of this little band 
Gathered together on the green hill-side. 
Your Pastor is emboldened to prefer 
Vocal thanksgivings to the eternal King ; 
Whose love, whose counsel, whose commands, have 

made 
Your very poorest rich in peace of thought 
And in good works ; and him, who is endowed 



DISCOURSE, ETC. 823 

With scantiest knoAvledge, master of all truth 
Which the salvatioa of his soul requires. 
Conscious of that abundant favor showered 
On you, the children of my humble care. 
And this dear land, our country, while on earth 
We sojourn, have I lifted up my soul, 
Joy giving voice to fervent gratitude. 
These barren rocks, your stern inheritance ; 
These fertile fields, that recompense your pains ; 
The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain-top ; 
Woods waving in the wind their lofty heads, 
Or hushed ; the roaring waters, and the still — 
They see the offering of my lifted hands. 
They hear my lips present their sacrifice. 
They know if I be silent, morn or even : 
For, though in whispers speaking, the full heart 
Will find a vent ; and thought is praise to him. 
Audible praise, to thee, omniscient Mind, 
From whom all gifts descend, all blessings flow ! 

This vesper-service closed, without delay. 
From that exalted station to the plain 
Descending, we pursued our homeward course. 
In mute composure, o'er the shadowy lake. 
Under a faded sky. No trace remained 
Of those celestial splendors ; grey the vault — 
Pure, cloudless, ether ; and the star of eve 
Was wanting ; but inferior lights appeared 
Faintly, too faint almost for sight ; and some 
Above the darkened hills stood boldly forth 
In twinkhng lustre, ere the boat attained 
Her mooring-place ; where, to the sheltering tree, 
Our youthful Voyagers bound fast her prow, 



324 THE EXCURSION. 

With prompt yet careful hands. This done, we paced 

The dewy fields ; but ere the Vicar's door 

Was reached, the Solitary checked his steps ; 

Then, intermingling thanks, on each bestowed 

A farewell salutation ; and, the like 

Receiving, took the slender path that leads 

To the one cottage in the lonely dell : 

But turned not without welcome promise made 

That he would share the pleasures and pursuits 

Of yet another summer's day, not loth 

To wander with us through the fertile vales. 

And o'er the mountain- wastes. " Another sun," 

Said he, " shall shine upon ns, ere we part ; 

Another sun, and perad venture more ; 

If time, with free consent, be yours to give, 

And season favors." 

To enfeebled Power, 
From this communion with uninjured Minds, 
What renovation had been brought ; and what 
Degree of healing to a wounded spirit. 
Dejected, and habitually disposed 
To seek, in degradation of the Kind, 
Excuse and solace for her own defects ; 
How far those erring notions were reformed ; 
And whether aught, of tendency as good 
And pure, from further intercourse ensued ; 
This — if delightful hopes, as heretofore. 
Inspire the serious song, and gentle Hearts 
Cherish, and lofty Minds approve the past — 
My future labors may not leave untold. 



NOTES. 



Note 1.— Page 13. 

Descend^ prophntic Spifitf that irtspirest 
The human soul.,'' Src 

'Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic Soul 
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come.' 

Shakspeare's Sonnets. 

Note 2.— P. 28. 
' — much did he see of Men.^ 

At the risk of giving a shock to the prejudices of artificial society, I 
have ever been ready to pay homage to the aristocracy of nature ; under 
a conviction that vigorous human-heartedness is the constituent principle 
of true taste. It may still, however, be satisfactory , to have prose, testi- 
mony how far a Character, employed for pui'poses of imagination, is 
foimded upon general fact. 1, therefore, subjoin an extract from an 
author who had opportunities of being well acquainted with a class of 
men, from whom my own personal knowledge emboldened me to draw 
this portrait. 

' We learn from Caesar and other Roman Writers, that the travelling 
merchants who frequented Gaul and other barbarous countries, either 
newly conquered by the Roman arms, or bordering on the Roman con- 
quest, were ever the first to make the inhabitants of those countries 
familiarly acquainted with the Roman modes of life, and to inspii-e them 
With an inclination to follow the Roman fashions, and to enjoy Roman 
conveniences. In North America, travelling merchants from the Settle- 
ments have done and continue to do much more toward civilizing the 
Indian natives, than all the missionaries, papist or protestant, who have 
ever been sent among them. 

It is farther to be observed, for the credit of this most useful class of 
men, that they commonly contribute, by their personal manners, no less 
than by the sale of their wares, to the refinement of the people among 
whom they travel. Their dealings form them to great quickness of wit 
and acuteness of judgment. Having constant occasion to recommend 
themselves and their goods, they acquire habits of the most obliging 
attention, and the most insinuating address. As in their peregrinations 
they have opportunity of contemplating the manners of various men and 
28 325 



326 NOTES. 

various cities, they become eminently stilled in the knowledge of the 
■world. Ss they wander, each alone, through thinly-inhabited districts, 
they form habits of reflection and of sublime contemplation. With all 
these qualifications, no Wonder, that they should often be, in remote parta 
of the country, the best mirrors of fashion, and censors of manners ; and 
should contribute much to polish the roughness, and soften the rusticity 
of our peasantry. It is not more than twenty or tl j ty yeai'S since a young 
man going from any part of Scotland to England, of purpose to carry the 
pack, was considered as going to lead the life and acquire the fortune of 
a gentleman. When, after twenty years' absence, in that honorable line 
of employment, he returned with hia acquisitions to his native country? 
he was regarded as a gentleman to all intents and purposes.' 

Heron's Journey in Scotland, VU. i. p. 89. 

Note 3.— P. 87. 
' Lost in unsearchable Eternity /' 

Since this paragraph was composed, I have read with so much pleasure, 
in Biunet's Theory of the Earth, a passage expressing corresponding 
sentiments, excited by objects of a similar nature, that I cannot forbear to 
ti'anscribe it. 

' Siquod verd Natiu'a nobis dedit spectaculum, in hie tellure, ver6 
gratum, et phUosopho dignum, id semel mihi contigisse arbitror ; cilm 
ex celsissima rupe speculabundus ad oram maris Mediterranei, hinc 
a3quor caeruleum, illinc tractus Alpines prospexi ; nihil quidem magis 
dispar aut dissimile; nee in suo genera, magls egregium et singulare. 
Hoc theatrum ego facile prsetulerira Romanis cunctis, GraBCisve ; atque 
id quod natiu'a liic spectandum exhibet, scenicis ludis omnibus, aut 
ainphitheatri certaminibus. Nahil hie elegans aut venostum, sed ingens 
et magniflcum, et quod placet magnitudine su4 et quadam specie im- 
mensitatis. Hinc intuebar maris aequabilem supei-fjciem, usque et usque 
diffusam, quantum maximum oculorum acies ferir potuit ; illinc disrup- 
tissimam terrse faciem, et vastas moles vari6 elevatas aut depressas, 
erectas, propendentes, reclinatas, coacervatas, omni situ iniequali et 
turbido. Placuit, ex h4c parte, Natui-se imitas et simplicitas, et inex- 
hausta qusedam planities ; ex altera, multiformis confusio raagnorum 
covporum, et insanae rerum strages : quas cum intuebai-, non urbia 
alicujus aut oppidi, sed confracti mundi rudera, ante ociilos habere mihi 
visus smn. 

In singulis fer6 montibus erat aliquid insolens et mirabile, sed pr» 
caeteris mihi placebat Ula, qu^ sedebam, rupes ; erat maxima et altissi- 
ma, et qua terram respiciebat, moUiori ascensu altitudinem suam disshn- 
ulabat : qui vero mare, horrendiim prseceps, et quasi ad perpendiculum 
facta, instar pavietis. Prseterea facies ilia marina adeo erat laevis ao 
uniformis (quod in rupibus aUquando observare licet) ac si scissa fuisset 
d summo ad imum, in iUo piano ; vel terrae motu aliquo, aut lulmine, 
divulsa. 

Ima pars rupis erat cava, recessusque habuit, et saxeos specus, emites 
in vacuum montem ; sive natiira pridem factos, sive exesos mari, et 



NOTES. 



327 



andarum crebris ictibus : In hos enim cum impetu ruebant et fragore, 
sestuantis maris fluctus ; quos iterum spumantes reddidit antrum, et quasi 
ab imo ventre evomuit. 

Dextrum latus mentis erat praeruptum, aspero saxo et muda caute ; 
sinistrum non adeo neglexerat Natura, arboribus utpote ornatiim : et pro- 
ps pedem mentis rivus limpid® aqu* prorupit; qui cum vicinam vallem 
irrigaverat, lento motu serpens, et per varies mseandros, quasi ad pro- 
trahendam vitam, in magno mari absorptus subito periit. Deuique in 
summo vertice promentorii, commed^ eminebat saxum, cui insidebam 
conteraplabundus. Vale augusta sedes, Rege digna: Augusta rupea 
semper mihi memoranda !' P. 89. Telluris Theoria sacra, <S-c. Editio 
secunda, 

NoTK 4.— P. 113. 
Of Mississippi, or that JVorthern Stream. 

*A man is supposed to improve by going out into the World, by 
visiting I^ondon. Artificial man does ; he extends with his sphere ; but, 
alas! that sphere is microscopic ; it is formed of minutisE, and he sur- 
renders his genuine vision to the artist, in order to embrace it in his ken. 
His bodily senses grow acute, even to barren and inhuman pruriency ; 
while his mental become proportionally obtuse. The reverse is the Man 
of Mind : he who is placed in the sphere of Nature and of God, might be 
a moct at Tattersall's and Brooks's, and a sneer at St James's : he would 
certainly be swallowed alive by the first Pizarro that crossed him : — But 
when he walks along the river of Amazons ; when he rests his eye on the 
unrivalled Andes ; when he measui-es thfrlong and watered savarmah ; 
or contemplates, from a sudden promontory, the distant, vast Pacific — 
and feels himself a freeman in this vast theatre, and commanding each 
ready produced fruit of this wilderness, and each progeny of this stream 
— his exaltation is not less than imperiaL He is as gentle, too, as he is 
great; his emotions of tenderness keep pace with his elevation of senti- 
ment ; for he says, ' These were made by a good Being, who, unsought 
by me, placed me here to enjoy them.' He becomes at once a child and a 
king. His mind is in himself; from hence he argues, and from hence he 
acts, and he argues unerringly, and acts magisterially : his mind in him- 
self is also in his God ; and therefore he loves, and therefore he soars.' — 
From the notes upon The Hurricane, a Poem, by William Gilbert. 

The Reader, I am sure, wiU thank me for the above quotation, which, 
though from a strange book, is one of the finest passages of modern 
English prose. 



Note 5.— P. 121. 

^ ' Tis, by comparison, an easy task 

E.irtk to despise^ Si-c, 

See, Ujwn this subject, Eaxter'a most inte-esting review of his owa 
opinions and -ienliments in the decline of life. It may be found (lately 
reprinted) in Dr. Wordsworth's EccleMastical Biegraphy. 



328 NOTES. 

Note 6— P. 123. 

^Alas ! the endowment of immortal Fower, 
Is matched unequally with custom, time,'' ^c. 
Tliis subject is treated at length in the ode — Intimations of Immor- 
tality. 

Note 7.— P. 127. 

' Knowing' the heart of Man is set to Je.' cS-c. 
The passage quoted from Daniel is taken from a poem addressed to 
the Lady Margaret, Countess of Cumberland, and the two last lines, 
printed in Italics, are by him translated fi'om !5eneca. The whole Poem 
is very beautiful. I will transcribe four stanzas from it, as they contaia 
an admirable picture of the state of a wise Man's mind in a time of pub- 
lic commotion. 

Nor is he moved with all the thunder-cracks 
Of tyrant's threats, or with the surly brow 
Of Power, that proudly sits on others' crimes ; 
Charged with more crying sins than those he cheekSb 
The storms of sad confusion that may grow 
Up in the present for the coming times, 
Appal not him ; that hath no side at all, 
But of himself, and knows the worst can fall. 

Although his heart (so near allied to earth) 
Cannot but pity the perplexed state 
Of troublous and distressed mortality, 
That thus make way unto the ugly birth 
Of their own sorrows, and do still beget 
Affliction upon Imbecility : 
Yet seeing thus the com-se of things must run. 
He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done. 

And whilst distraught ambition compasses, 
And is encompassed, while as craft deceives, 
And is deceived : whilst man doth ransack man. 
And builds on blood, and rises by distress ; 
And th' Inheritance of desolation leaves 
To great-expecting hopes : He looks thereon. 
As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye,- 
And bears no venture in Impiety. 

Thus, Lady, fares that man that hath prepared 
A rest for his desires ; and sees all things 
Beneath him ; and hath leai'ued this book of man. 
Full of the notes of frailty ; and compai'ed 
The best of glory with her sufferings: 
By whom, I see, you labor all you can 
To plant your heart ! and set your thoughts as neay 
His glorious mansion as your power can bear. 



NOTES. S99 

Note &— P> 18a 

' Or rather^ &s we fstand en holy taftk 
And have the dead around us^ 

,£e<j. Yoft, Sir, could help me to the hi&tory 
Of half these grares ? 

Priest. For eight'-score wnters past, 

"With what Pve witnessed, and with what I've heard) 

Perhaps I mighty "— — 

By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, 

We two could tl-avel, Sir, through a strange round ; 

Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 

See The Br^therst 

Note 9.— P. 192. 

*u9«(i svfferiKff IN'ature gricjed that one should dieJ' 

Soutliey's RetrospecU 

NoTfe l(k— P. 194. 
' And whenee that tribute 7 wherefore these f-egards ?' 

The sentiments and opinions here uttered are in unison with those 
expressed in the following Essay upon Epitaphs, which was furnished by 
me for Mr. Coleridge's periodical work. The Friend ; and as they are dic- 
tated by a spirit congenial to that which pervades this and the two 
succeeding books, the sympathizing reader will not be disappointed to 
see the Essay here annexed. 

ESSAY UPON EPITAPHS. 

It needs scarcely be said, that an Epitaph presupposes a Monument, 
upon which it is to be engraven. Almost all nations have wished that 
certain external signs should point out the places where their dead are 
interred. Among savage tribes unacquainted with letters this has most- 
ly been done either by rude stones placed near the graves, or by mounds 
of earth raised over them. This custom proceeded obviously from a 
twof jld desire 5 first, to guard the remains of the deceased from irrever- 
ent approach or from savage violation : and, secondly, to preserve their 
memory. ' Never an^',' says Camden, ' neglected burial but some savage 
nations ; as the Bactrians, which cast their dead to the dogs ; some varlet 
philosophers, as Diogenes, who desired to be devoiu-ed of fishes ; some 
dissolute courtiers, as Maecenas, who was wont to say, Non tumulum euro ; 
sepelit Datura relictos, 

I'm careless of a grave; — Natui'e her dead will save.' 

As soon as nations had learned the use of letters, epitaphs were in- 
scribed upon these monuments ; in order that their intention might be 
more sm-ely and adequately fulfilled. I have derived monuments and 
28* 



330 NOTES. 

epitaphs from two sources df feeling : but these do in fact resolve them- 
selves into one. The invention of epitaphs, Weaver, in his Discoui-se,of 
Funeral Monuments, says rightly, 'proceeded from the presage or fore- 
feeling of immortality, implanted m all men naturally, and is referred to 
the scholars of Linus the Theban poet, who flourished about the year of 
the world two thousand seven hundred ; who first bewailed this Linus 
their Master, when he was slain, in doleful verses, then called of him 
CElina, afterwards Epitaphia, for that they were first sung at bm-ials, after 
engraved upon the sepulchres.' 

And, verily, without the consciousness of a principle of immortality in 
the human soul, Man could never have hhd awakened in him the desire 
to live in the remembrance of his fellows : mere lote, or the yearning of 
kind towards kind, could not have produced it. The dog or horse 
perishes in the field, or in the stall, by the side of his companions, and is 
incapable of anticipating the sorrow with which his sui'rouuding associates 
shall bemoan his death, or pine for his loss ; he cannot pre-conceive this 
regret, he can form no thought of it ; and therefore cannot possibly have 
a desire to leave such regret or remembrance behind him. Add to the 
principle of love which exists in the inferior animals, the faculty of reason 
which exists in Man alone; will the conjunction of these accotmt for the 
desire ? Doubtless it is a necessary consequence of this conjunction ; yet 
not I think as a direct result, but only to be come at through an interme- 
diate thought, viz. that of an intimation or assurance within us, that some 
part of our nature is imperis-hable. At least the precedence, in order of 
birth, of one feeling to the other, is unquestionable. If we look back 
upon the days of childhood. We shall find that the time is not in remem- 
brance when, with respect to our own individual Being, the mind was 
without this assurance : whereas, the wish to be remembered by our 
friends or kindi'ed after death, or even in absence, is, as we shgll dis- 
cover, a sensation that does not form itself till the social feelings have 
been developed, ahd the reason has connected itself with a wide range 
of objects. Forlorn, and cut off from communication with the best part 
of his nature, must that man be, who should derive the sense of immor- 
tality, as it exists in the mind of a child, from the same unthinking gaiety 
or liveliness of animal spirits with which the lamb in the meadow, or 
any other irrational creature is endowed ; who should ascribe it, in short, 
to blank ignorance in the child ; to an inability arising from the imper- 
fect state of his faculties to come, in any point of his being, into contact 
with a notion of death ; or to an unreflecting acquiescence in what had 
been instilled mto him ! Has such an unfolder of the mysteries of nature) 
though he may have forgotten his former self, ever noticed the early, 
obstinate, and unappeasable inquisitiveness of children upon the subject 
of origination ? This single fact proves outwardly the monstrousness of 
those suppositions : for, if we had no direct external testimony that the 
minds of very yoimg children meditate feelingly upon death and immor- 
tality, these inquiries, which we all know they are pei'petually making 
concerning the whence, do necessarily include correspondent habits of 
interrogation concerning the whither. Origin and tendency are notions 
inseparably co-relative. Never did a child stand by the side of a running 
stream, pondering within himself what power was the feeder of the 



NOTES. 331 

perpetual cuirent, from what never-wearied sources the body of watef 
Was supplied, but he must have been inevitably propelled to follow this 
question by another : " Towards what abyss is it in progress ? What re- 
(ieptacle can contain the mighty influx ?" And the spirit of the answer 
must have been, though the word might be sea or ocean, accompanied 
perhaps with an image gathered from a map, or from the real object in 
nature— these might have been the ietter.) but the spirit of the answer 
must have been as inevitably,^a receptacle without bounds or di- 
mensions; — nothing less than infinity. We may, then, be justified in 
asserting, that the sense of immortality, if not a co-existent and twin 
birth with Reason, is among the earliest of her offspring : and we may 
further assert, that from these conjoined, and under their countenance, 
the human affections are gradually formed and opened out. This is not 
the place to enter into the recesses of these investigations ; but the 
subject requires me here to malte a plain avowal, that, for my own part, 
it is to me inconceivable, that the sympathies of love towards each other, 
which grow with our growth, could ever attain any new strength, or even 
preserve the old, after we had received from the outward senses the 
impression of death, and were in the habit of having that impression 
daily renewed and its accompanying feeling brought home to ourselves, 
and to those we love : if f he same were not counteracted by those com- 
munications with om- internal Being, which are anterior to all these 
expei'iences, and with which revelation coincides, and has through that 
cuincidence alone (for otherwise it could not possess it) a power to affect 
us. I confess, with me the conviction is absolute, that, if the impression 
and sense of death were not thus comiterbalanced, such a hoUownesa 
would pervade the whole system of things, such a want of correspon- 
dence and consistency, a disproportion so astounding betwixt means and 
ends, that there could be no repose, no joy. Were we to grow up un- 
fostered by this genial warmth, a frost would chill the spirit, so penetrat- 
ing and powerful, that there could be no motions of the life of love ; and 
infinitely less could we have any wish to be remembered after we had 
passed away from a world in which each man had moved about like a 
shadow.-- If, then, in a creature endowed with the faculties of foresight 
and reason, the social affections could not have unfolded themselves 
uncountenanced l)y the faith that Man is an immortal being; and if, 
consequently, neither could the individual dying have had a desire to 
survive in the remembrance of his fellows, nor on then- side could they 
have felt a wish to preserve for future times vestiges of the departed-, 
it follows, as a final inference, that without the belief in immortality, 
wherein these several desires originate, neither monuments nor epitaphs, 
in affectionate or laudatory commemoration of the deceased, could have 
existed in the world. 

Simonides, it is related, upon landing in a strange counti-y, foimd the 
corse of an imknown person lying by the sea-side ; he buried it, and was 
honored throughout Greece for the piety of that act. Another ancient 
Philosopher, chancing to fix his eyes upon a dead body, regarded the 
same with slight, if not with contempt ; saying, " See the shell of the 
flown bird !" But it is not to be supposed that the moral and tender 
heai'ted Simonides was incapable of the lofty movements of thought, to 



S32 NOTES. 

which that other Sage gav« way at the moment while his soul was intent 
only upon the indestructible being ; nor, on the other hand, that he, in 
whose sight a lifeless human body was of no more value than the worth- 
less shell from which the Uving fowl had departed, would not, m a 
different mood of mind, have been affected by those earthly considera- 
tions which had incited the philosophic Poet to the perforaiance of that 
pious duty. And with regard to this latter we may be assmed that, if he 
had been destitute of the capability of communing with the more ex- 
alted thoughts that appertain to human natme, he would have cared no 
more for the corse of the stranger than for the dead body of a seal or 
porpoise which might have been cast up by the waves. We respect the 
corporeal frame of Man, not merely because it is the habitation of a rational^ 
but of a,n immortal Soul. Each of these Sages was in sympathy with the 
best feelings of our nature ; feelings which, though they seem opposite 
to each otlier, have another and a finer connection than that of contrast* 
— It is a connection formed through the subtle progress by which, both 
in the natural and the moral world, qualities pass insensibly into their 
contraries, and things revolve upon each other. As, in sailing upon the 
orb of this planet, a voyage towards the regions where the sun sets, 
conducts gradually to the quarter where we have been accustomed to 
behold it come forth at its rising ; and, in lilte manner, a voyage towards 
the east, the birth-place in our imagination of the morning, leads finally 
to the quarter where the sun is last seen when he departs from our eyes ; 
so the contero.plative Soul^ travelling in the direction of mortality, advan- 
ces to the country of everlasting life ; and, in liiie manner, may she 
continue to explore those cheerful tracts, till she is brought baclf , for her 
advantage and benefit, to the land of transitory things— of sorrow and of 
tears. 

On a midway point, therefore, which commands the thoughts and 
feelings of the two Sages whom we have represented in contrast, does 
the Author of that species of composition, the laws of which it is our 
present purpose to explain, take his stand. Accordingly, recurring to 
the twofold desire of guai'ding the remains of the deceased and preserv- 
ing theii' memory, it may be said that a sepulchral monument is a tribute 
to a man as a human being 5 and that an epitaph (in the ordinary mean- 
ing attached to the word) includes this general feeling and something 
more 5 and is a record to preserve the memory of the dead, as a tribute 
iue to his individual worth, for a satisfaction to the sorrowing hearts of 
the survivoi-s, and for the common benefit of the living ; which i-ecord is 
to be accomplished, not in a general maimer, but, where it can, in close 
conn^tion with the bodily remains of Ike deceased : and these, it may be 
added, among the modern nations of Em'ope, are deposited within, or 
contiguous to, their places of worship. In ancient times, as is well 
known, it was the custom to bury the dead beyond the walls of towns 
and cities ; and among the Greeks and Romans they were frequently in- 
terred by the way-sides. 

I could here pause with pleasure, and invite the Reader to indulge 
with me in contemplation of the advantages which must have attended 
sue!) a pj-actjce. We might ruminate upon the beauty which the mona- 



NOTES. 333 

ments, thus placed, must have borrowed from the surrounding imagea 
of nature — from the trees, the wild flowers, from a stream running 
perhaps within sight or hearing, from the beaten road stretching its 
weary length hard by. Many tender simQitudes must these objects have 
presented to the mind of the traveller leaning upon one of the tombs, or 
reposing in the coolness of its shade, whether he had halted from weari- 
ness or in compliance with the invitation, 'Pause, Traveller!' so often 
found upon the monuments. And to its epitaph also must have been 
supplied strong appeals to visible appearances or immediate impressions, 
lively and affecting analogies of life as a journey— death as a sleep over- 
coming the tired wayfai'er — of misfortune as a stoiin that falls suddenly 
upon him — of beauty as a flower that passeth away, or of innocent 
pleasure as one that may be gathered — of virtue that standeth tirm as a 
rock against the beating waves ;— of hope ' undermined insensibly like 
the poplar by the side of the river that has fed it,' or blasted in a moment 
like a pine-tree by the stroke of lightning upon the mountain-top— of 
admonitions and heart-stii'ring remembrances, like a refreshing breeze 
that comes without warning, or the taste of the waters of an unexpected 
fountain. These, and similar suggestions, must have given, formerly, to 
the language of the senseless stone a voice enforced and endeared by the 
benignity of that nature with which it was in imison. — We, in modem 
times, have lost much of these advantages ; and they are but in a small 
degree counterbalanced to the inhabitants of large towns and cities, by 
the custom of depositing the dead within, or contiguous to, their places 
of worship ; however splendid or imposing may be the appearance of 
those edifices, or however interesting or salutary the recollections asso- 
ciated with them. Even were it not true that tombs lose their monitory 
virtue when thus obtruded upon the notice of men occupied with the 
cares of the world, and too often suUied and defiled by those cares, yet 
still, when death is in our thoughts, nothing can make amends for the 
want of the soothing influences of nature, and for the absence of those 
types of renovation and decay, which the fields and woods offer to the 
notice of the serious and contemplative mind. To feel the force of this 
sentiment, let a man only compare in imagination the unsightly manner 
in which our monuments are crowded together in the busy, noisy, un- 
clean, and almost grassless chm'ch-yard of a lai'ge town, with the stUl 
seclusion of a Turkish cemetery, in some remote place ; and yet further 
sanctified by the grove of cypress in which it is embosomed. Thoughts 
In the same temper as these have already been expressed with true sen- 
BibiUty by an ingenuous Poet of the present day. The subject of his 
poem is " AU Saints Church, Derby :" he has been deploring the forbid- 
ding and unseemly appearance of its burial-groimd, and uttering a wish, 
that in past times the practice had been adopted of interring the inhabit* 
ants of large towns in the country. — 

'Then, in some raral, calm, sequestered spot, 
Where healing Nature her benignant look 
Ne'er changes, save at that lorn season, when, 
With tresses di'ooping o'er her sable stole. 
She yearly moiu-ns the mortal doom of man, 



334 NOTES. 

Her noblest work, (so Israel's virgins erst, 
With annual moan upon the mountains wept 
7'heir fairest gone,) there in that rural scene, 
So placid, so congenial to the wish 
The Christian feels, of peaceful rest within 
The silent grave, I would have stayed : 

— wandered forth, where the cold dew of heaven 
Lay on the humbler graves around, what time 
The pale moon gazed upon the turfy mounds, 
Pensive, as though like me, in lonely muse, 
'T were brooding on the dead inhumed beneath. 
There while with him, the holy man of Uz, 
O'er human desiiny I sympathized. 
Counting the long, long periods prophecy 
Decrees to roll, ere the great day arrives 
Of resui-rection, oft the blue-eyed Spring 
Had met me with her blossoms, as the Dove, 
Of old, returned with olive leaf, to cheer 
The Patriarch mourniug o'er a world destroy'd : 
And I would bless her visit ; for to me 
'T is sweet to trace the consonance that links 
As one, the works of Natm-e and the word 

Of God.' 

John Edwards. 

A village church-yard, lying as it does in the lap of nature, may indeed 
be mo9t favorably contrasted with that of a town of crowded population ; 
and sepulture therein combines many of the best tendencies which 
belong to the mode practised by the Ancients, with others peculiar to 
itself. The sensations of pious cheerfulness, which attend the celebra- 
tion of the Sabbath-day in rural places, are profitably chastised by the 
sight of the graves of kindred and friends, gathered together in that 
general home towards which the thoughtful yet happy spectators them- 
selves are journeying. Hence a parish-church, in the stillness of the 
country, is a visible centre of a community of the living and the dead ; 
a point to which are habitually referred the neai-est concerns of both. 

As, then, both in cities and in villages, the dead are deposited in close 
connection with our places of worship, with us the composition of 
an epitaph naturally turns, still more than among the nations of antiqui 
ty, iipon the most serious and solemn affections of the human mind ; 
upon departed worth— upon personal or social sorrow and admiration 
— upon religion, individual and social — upon time, and upon eternity. 
Accordingly, it suffices, in ordinary cases, to secure a composition of this 
kind from censure, that it contain nothing thtCt shaU shock or be incon- 
sistent with this spirit. But, to entitle an epitaph to praise, more than 
this is necessary. It ought to contain some thought or feeling belongi;<<r 
to the mortal or immortal part of our nature touohingly expressed ; aiiA 
if that be done, however general or even trite the sentiment may I*, 
every man of pure mind will read the words with pleasui-e and gratituc.**. 



NOTES. 335 

A husband bowails a wife ; a parent breathes a sigh of disappointed 
hope over a lost child ; a son utters a sentiment of filial reverence for a 
departed father or mother ; a friend perhaps inscribes an encomium re- 
cording the companionable qualities, or the solid virtues, of the tenant 
of the grave, whose departure has left a sadness upon his memory. This 
and a pious admonition to the living, and a humble expression of Chris- 
tian confidence in immortality, is the language of a thousand church- 
yards ; and it does not often happen that anything, in a greater degree 
discriminate or appropriate to the deader to the living, is to be found in 
them. This want of discrimination has been ascribed, by Dr. Johnson, 
in his Essay upon the epitaphs of Pope, to two causes ; first, the scanti- 
ness of the objects of human praise; and, secondly, the want of variety 
in the characters of men ; or, to use his own words, ' to the fact, that the 
greater part of mankind have no character at all.' Such language may 
be holden without blame among the generalities of common conversa- 
tion ; but does not become a critic and a moralist speaking seriously 
upon a serious subject. The objects of admiration in human nature are 
nut scanty, but abundant ; and every man has a character of his own, to 
the eye that has skill to perceive it. The real cause of the acknowledged 
want of discrimination in sepulchral memorials is this : That to ana- 
lyze the characters of others, especially of those whom we love, is not a 
common or natural employment of men at any time. We are not 
anxious unerringly to understand the constitution of the minds of those 
who have soothed, who have cheered, who have supported us ; with 
whom we have been long and daily pleased or delighted. The affections 
are their own justification. The light of love in our hearts is a satisfac- 
toi-y evidence that there is a body of worth in the minds of oiu- friends 
or kindred, whence that light has proceeded. We shrink from the 
thought of placing their merits and defects to be weighed against each 
other in the nice balance of pure intellect ; nor do we find much tempta- 
tion to detect the shades by which a good quality or virtue is discrimin- 
ated in them from an excellence known by the same general name as it 
exists in the mind of another : and, least of all, do we incline to these 
refinements when under the pressure of sorrow, admiration, or regret, or 
when actuated by any of those feelings which incite men to prolong the 
memory of their friends and kindred, by records placed in the bosom of 
the all-uniting and equalizing receptacle of the dead. 

The first requisite, then, in an Epitaph is, that it should speak, in a 
tone that shall sink into the heart, the general language of humanity 
OS connected with the subject of death — the source from which an epi- 
taph proceeds — of death, and of life. To be born and to die are the two 
points in which all men feel themselves to be in absolute coincidence. 
This general language may be uttered so strikingly as to entitle an epi- 
taph to high praise; yet it cannot lay claim to the highest, unless other 
excellencies be superadded. Passing through all intermediate steps we 
will attempt to determine at once what these excellencies are, and 
wherein consists the perfection of this species of composition. — It will 
he found to lie in a due proportion of the common or universal feeling of 
humanity to sensations excited by a distinct and clear conception, con- 






336 NOTES. 

veyed to the reader's mind, of the individual, whose death is deplored 
and whose niemory is to be preserV^ed ; at least Of his character as, aftef 
death, it appeared to those who loved him, and lament his loss.- The 
general sympathy ought to be quickened, provoked, and diversified, by 
l)ai-ticular thoughts, actions, images, — circumstances of age, occupation, 
manner of life, prosperity Which the deceased had known, or adversity 
to which he had been subject ; and these ought to be bound together 
and solemnized into one harmony by the general sympathy. The two 
powers shotdd tempei', restrain, and exalt each other. The reader ought 
to know who and what the man was whom he is called upon to think of 
With interest. A distinct conception Should be given (implicitly where 
it can, rather than e.xplicitly) of the individual lamented. I3ut thu 
writer of an epitaph is not an anatomist. Who dissects the internal frame 
of the mind ; he is not eVen a painter, who executes a portrait at leisure 
and in entire tranquillity : his delineation, we must remember, is per- 
formed by the side of the grave ; and, what is more, the grave of one 
Whom he loves and admires. What purity and brightness is that virtue 
clothed in, the image of which must no longer bless our living eyes ! 
The character of a deceased friend or beloved kinsman is not seen, no — ' 
nor ought to be seen, otherwise than aa a tree through a tender haze or 
a luminous mist, that spiritualizes and beautifies it ; that takes away, 
indeed, but only to the end that the parts which are not abstracted may 
appear more dignified and lovely ; may impress and affect the more. 
Shall we say, then, that this is not truth, not a faithful image ; and that, 
accordingly, the purposes of commemoration cannot be answered '? — It 
is truth, and of the highest order ; for, though doubtless things are not 
appai'ent which did exist ; yet, the object being looked at through this 
medium, parts and proportions are brought into distinct view which be- 
fore had been only imperfectly or unconsciously seen ! it is truth hallow- 
ed by love — the jomt offspring of the worth of the dead and the affections 
of the living ! This may easily be brought to the test. Let one, whose 
eyes have been sharpened by personal hostility to discover what was 
amiss in the chai'acter of a good man, hear the tidings of his death, and 
what a change is wrought in a moment 1 Enmity melts away ; and, as 
it disappears, unsightliness, disproportion, and deformity, vanish ; and, 
through the influence of commiseration, a harmony of love and beauty 
succeeds. Bring such a man to the tombstone on which shall be inscrib- 
ed an epitaph on his adversary, composed in the spirit which we havo 
recommended. Would he turn from it as from an idle tale ? No ; — the 
thoughtful look, the sigh, and perhaps the involuntary tear, would testify 
that it had a sane, a generous, and good meaning; and that on the 
writer's mind had remained an impression which was a true abstract of 
the character of the deceased ; that his gifts and graces were remembered 
in the simplicity in which they ought to be remem'iered. The oompo 
sition and quality of the mind of a virtuous man, contemplated by the 
side of the grave where his body is mouldering, ought to appear, and be 
felt as something midway between what he was on earth walking about 
with his living frailties, and what he may be presumed to be as a Spirit 
in heaven. 



NOTES. 337 

It suflSces, therefore, that the trunk and the main branches of the worth 
of the deceased be boldly and unaffectedly represented. Any further 
Uetail, minutely and scrupulously pursued, especially if this be done 
with laborious and antithetic discriminations, must inevitably frustrate 
its own purpose ; forcing the passing Spectator to this conclusion,- -either 
that the dead did not possess the merits ascribed to him, or that they 
who have raised a monument to his memory, and must therefore be 
supposed to have been closely connected with him, were incapable of 
perceiving those merits ; or at least during the act of composition had 
lost sight of them ; for, the understanding having been so busy in its 
petty occupation, how could the heart of the mourner be other than 
cold ? and in either of these cases, whether the fault be on the part of 
the buried person or the survivors, the memorial ia imaffecting and 
profitless. 

Much better is it to fall short in discrimination than to piu'sue it too 
far, or to labor it unfeelingly. For in no place are we so much disposed 
to dwell upon those points, of nature and condition, wherein all men 
resemble each other, as in the temple where the luiiversal Father is wor- 
shipped, or by the side of the grave which gathers aU human Beings to 
itseli; and ' equalizes the lofty and the low.' We suffer and we weep 
with the same heart; we love and are anxious for one another in one 
spirit ; our hopes look to the same quarter ; and the \'irtues by which we 
are all to be furthered and supported, as patience, meekness, good-will, 
justice, temperance, and temperate desires, are in an equal degree the 
concern of us all. Let an Epitaph, then, contain at least these acknowl- 
edgments to our common nature; nor let the sense of their importance 
be sacrificed to a balance of opposite qualities or minute distinctions in 
individual character : which if they do not, (as will for the most part be 
the case,) when examined, resolve themselves into a trick of words, 
will, even when they are true and just, for the most part be giievously 
out of place ; for, as it is probable that few only have explored these 
intricacies of human natm'e, so can the tracing of them be interesting only 
to a few. But an epitaph is not a proud writing, shut up for the studious : 
it is exposed to all — to the wise and the most ignorant ; it is condescend- 
ing, perspicuous, and lovingly solicits regai'd ; its story and admonitions 
are brief, that the thoughtless, the busy, and the indolent, may not be 
deterred, nor tlie impatient tired : the stooping old man cons the engraven 
record like a second horn-book ; — the child is proud that he can read it ; 
— and the stranger is introduced through its mediation to the company of 
a friend : it is concerning all, and for all : — in the church-yard it is open 
to the day ; the sim looks down upon the stone, and the rains of heaven 
beat against it. 

Yet, though the writer who would excite sympathy is bound in this 
case, more than in any other, to give proof that he himself has been 
moved, it is to be remembered, that to raise a raouuinent is a sober and 
a reflective act ; that the inscription which it bears is intended to be per- 
manent, and for universal perusal ; and that, for this reason, the thoughts 
and feelings expressed should be permanent also — liberated from that 
weakness and anguish of sorrow which is in nature transitory, and which, 
with instinctive decency, retu'es from notice. The passions' should bj 

29 



338 NOTES. 

subdued, the emotions controlled ; strong, indeed, but nothing Tmgor^rema- 
ble or wholly iBvoluntary. Seemliness requires this, and truth requires it 
also : for how can the narrator otherwise be trusted ? Moreovei', a grave 
33 a tranquillizing object : resignation in course of time springs up from it 
as natuially as the wild flowers, besprinkling the turf with which it may 
be covered, or gathering round the monument by wliich it is defended. 
The very form and substance of the monument which has received the 
inscription, and the appearance of the letters, testifying with what a slow 
Jind laborious hand they must have been engraven, might seem to re- 
proach the author who had given way upon this occasion to transports 
of mind, or to quick turns of conflicting passion; though the same 
might constitute the life and beauty of a funeral oration or elegiac poem. 

These sensations and judgments, acted upon perhaps unconsciously, 
have been one of the main causes why epitaphs so often personate the 
deceased, and represent him as speaking from his own tomb-stone. The 
departed Mortal is introduced telling you himself that his pains are gone ; 
that a state of rest is come; and he conjures you to weep for him no 
longer. He admonishes with the voice of one experienced in the vanity 
of those affections which are confined to earthly objects, and gives a ver- 
dict like a superior Being, performing the office of a judge, who has no 
temptations to mislead him, and .whose decision cannot but be dispas- 
sionate. Thus is death disarmed of its sting, and affliction unsubstan- 
tialized. By this tender fiction, the survivors bind themselves to a seda- 
ter sorrow, and employ the intervention of the imagination in order that 
the reason may speak her own language earlier than she would other- 
wise have been enabled to do. This shadowy interposition also harmo- 
niously unites the two worlds of the living and the dead by their appro- 
priate affections. And it may be observed, that here we have an 
additional proof of the propriety with which sepulchral insci'iptions were 
referred to the consciousness of immortality as their primal source. 

I do not speak with a wish to recommend that an epitaph should be 
cast in this mould preferably to the still more common one, in which 
what is said comes from the survivors directly ; but rather to point out 
how natural those feelings are which have induced men, in all states and 
ranks of society, so frequently to adopt this mode. And this 1 have done 
chiefly in order that the laws, which ought to govern the composition of 
the other, may be better understood. This lattter mode, namely, that in 
which the sm'vivors speak in their own persons, seems to me upon the 
whole greatly preferable : as it admits a wider range of notices ; and, 
above all, because, excluding the fiction which is the gi-oundwork of the 
other, it rests upon a more solid basis. 

Enough has been said to convey our notion of a perfect epitaph ; but 
it must be borne in mind that one is meant which will best answer the 
general ends of that species of composition. According to the course 
pointed out, the worth of private life, through all varieties of situation 
and character, will be most honorably and profitably preserved in 
memory. Nor would the model recommended less suit public men, in 
all instances save of those persons who by the greatness of their services 
in the employments of peace or war, or by the sm-passing excellence of their 
works m art, literature, or science, have made themselves not only uni ver 



NOTES. 33S 

sally Icnown, but have filled the heart of their country with everlasting 
gr titude. Vet I must here pause to correct myself. In describing the 
gener 1 tenor of thought which epitaphs ought to hold, I have omitted 
to say, that if it be the actions of a man, or even some one conspicuous 
or beneficial act of local or general utility, which have distinguished him, 
an 1 excited a desire that he should be remembered, then, of course, 
ought the attention to be directed chiefly to those actions or that act: 
an 1 such senlimeuts dwelt upon as naturally arise out of them or it. 
Having made this necessary distinction, I proceed. — The mighty bene- 
fact.irs of mankind, as they are not only known by the immediate 
s .rvivors, but will continue to be known familiarly to latest posterity, 
do not stand in need of biographic sketches, in such a place ; nor of 
delineations of characte" to individualize them. This is already done by 
their Works, in the memories of men. Their naked names, and a grand 
comprehensive sentiment of civic gratitude, patriotic love, or human 
admiration — or the utterance of some elementary principle most essen- 
tial in the constitution of true virtue ; — or a declaration touching that 
pious humility and self-abasement, which are over most profound as 
minds are most susceptible of genuine exaltation — or an intuition, com- 
municated in adequate words, of the sublimity of intellectual power; — 
these are the only tribute which can here be paid — the only offering that 
upon such an altar would not be unworthy. 

' What needs my Shakspeare for his honored bones 
The labor of an age in piled stones, 
Or that his hallowed rehques should be hid 
Under a starry-pointing pyramid ? 
Dear Son of Memory, great Heir of Fame, 
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name ? 
Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
Hast built thyself a livelong monument, 
And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie. 
That kings Ibr such a tomb would wish to die.' 

Note 11.— P. 198. 
' And spires whose ' silent finger points to Heaven.^ ' 
An instinctive taste teaches men to build their churches In flat coun- 
tries with spire-steeples, which, as they cannot be referred to any other 
object, point as with silent finger to the sky and stars, and sometimes, when 
they reflect the brazen light of a rich though rainy smiset, appear like a 
pyramid of flame burning heaven-ward. See "The Friend," by S, T. 
Coleridge, No. 14, p. 223. 

Note 12.— 259. 

' T/iat Sycamore, which annually holds 
fVithin its shade as in a stately tent.' 

'This Sycamore oft musical with Bees; 
Such Tents the Patiiai'chs loved.' 

S. T. Coleridge, 



340 NOTES. 

Note 13.— P. 271. 
' Perish the roses and the flowers of kings! 

The 'Transit gloria mundi' is finely expressed in the Introduction 
to the Foundation-charters of some of the ancient Abbeys. Some ex- 
pressions here used are taken fromi that of the Abbey of St. Mary's, 
Furness, the translation of which is as follows : — 

'Considering every day the uncertainty of life, that the roses and 
flowers of Kings, Emperors, and Dukes, and the crowns and palms of 
all the great, wither and decay; and that all things, with an uninter- 
rupted course, tend to dissolution and death : I therefore)' &c. 

NoTK 14.— P. 281. 

'■Earth has lent 



Her waters, Mr her breezes.^ 

In treating this subject, it was impossible not to recollect, with grati- 
tude, the pleasing picture, which, in his Poem of the Fleece, the excellent 
and amiable Dyer has given of the mfluences of manufactui'ing industry 
upon the face of this Island. He wrote at a time when machinery was 
first beginning to be introduced, and his benevolent heart prompted him 
to augur from it nothing but good. Truth has compelled me to dwell 
upon the baneful effects arising out of an ill-regulated and excessive ap- 
plication of powers so admhable in themselves. 

Note 15.— P. 309. 
^Binding herself by Statute.' 

The discovery of Dr. Bell affords marvellous facihties for carrying this 
into effect; and it is impossible to overrate the benefit which might 
accrue to humanity from the universal application of this simple engine 
under an enlightened and conscientious government. 



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